Catharsis
by Dea Liberty
Summary: It's suprising what a small bit of knowledge can do to a man. When things change, the foundations they've built their worlds on begin to crumble. And they are left to find one another whilst searching for the truth - and themselves. GGT SLASH. COMPLETE.
1. Prologue: Frozen

**Title:** Catharsis (Prologue: Frozen)  
**Pairing:** Gawain/Galahad  
**Dedication:** **mlh**  
**A/N:** Originally, for the "first line" drabble meme: _"...it might be cool to start a meme where you list all the first lines of your fics and then people write drabbles in the comments with the same first line."_ Now, by request, as the Prologue for **Catharsis**.

**catharsis** /ca-THAR-sis/, noun:  
1.) A purifying or figurative cleansing of the emotions, especially pity and fear, described by Aristotle as an effect of tragic drama on its audience.  
2.) A release of emotional tension, as after an overwhelming experience, that restores or refreshes the spirit.

"Who makes all these?" Gawain runs his hands over Galahad's back, tracing the scars, both new and old, that zigzag their way across it, almost in mockery of death. Galahad freezes at hearing the question, tensing up. "Galahad?" 

"Gawain," Galahad almost whispers, teeth clenched, pleading. "Gawain, you promised not to ask."

Gawain sighs. "I know. But that was before I noticed: even though I am with you, even though I protect you, there are still fresh scars. Tell me, Galahad, who makes these?"

Gawain knows Galahad cannot lie to him.

"Tristan," Galahad breathes, and it is Gawain's turn to freeze.


	2. I: Damnation

**Title:** Catharsis  
**Author:** **dealiberty**  
**Pairing:** Gawain/Galahad (more later)  
**Rating:** R  
**Dedication:** For **eudaimon**. Originally, I think, in return for graphics. Now, it's just for always being here, for being so good to me even in the short time we've known each other and, most of all, just for being you.  
**A/N:** This fic is _complete_. A chapter will be posted twice a week, on Fridays and Tuesdays. Thanks to both **eudaimon** and **trinityc** for beta-ing, and the endless support you've given me.

_"Tell me, Galahad, who makes these?"_

_"Tristan."_

Galahad is asleep in his arms, and Gawain is tracing the scars on his back and watching him, curled protectively around him. Contrary to his loving, soothing touch, Gawain's angry. He's angry at Tristan. He's angry at himself. And he's not sure if he's angry that Tristan dared to hurt Galahad – or that Tristan's marks litter _his_ Galahad's back, as if claiming him, mocking Gawain with their presence.

_He is not yours alone._

_Someone else has seen and marked what belongs to you._

_You could not protect him._

Gawain wants to erase those thoughts, wants to be able to erase the marks on Galahad's back, wants to erase time. But he can't. And he lies awake, tracing the very images that have condemned him to sleeplessness.

He is not sure which accusation, which claim, which _damnation_ hurts the most.

He has not asked Galahad about it. Not further than he already has. He remembers Galahad's huge, frightened eyes, staring up at him filled with dread, but so pure – so _honest_. He cannot lie to Gawain – he _would_ not. Even though it hurts him. Gawain doesn't want to hurt him any more. He never wants to hurt Galahad.

But he knows that there is more than what Galahad is letting on.

The younger knight shifts in his arms, and Gawain unconsciously pulls him tighter, automatically settling Galahad back against him.

And Gawain can't help but wonder if Galahad is this at ease – this natural – when he's with Tristan.

Gawain mentally shakes himself. He doesn't know the circumstances in which Galahad goes to Tristan. He doesn't know the nature of their relationship, if it can be called that. He doesn't know if Galahad is coerced into it or goes willingly.

Damn it. He doesn't know _anything_.

Gawain sighs and prepares himself for a restless night, Galahad's soft breathing not calming or comforting him as it usually does.

Instead, he continues to trace the scars. He is touching something untouchable. Tristan's marks. Tristan's art. Tristan. He knows he should not feel like he knows the scout better. He knows that those marks were not meant for his eyes. And he knows that he should not be this fascinated.

But he is mesmerised by their disconcerting beauty. And he is unsettled that he actually finds them beautiful.

Galahad shifts again, sending the moonlight rippling over liquid metal scars that seem to have gathered a life of their own. And Gawain cannot help but let his fingers follow, trailing, feather light, over the tiny uneven ridges, like Tristan's hawk gliding effortlessly, high above the rocky terrain.

Galahad shivers, leaning into the touch. He's almost awake now, Gawain knows from the change in his breathing: it's become shallower and slightly faster. It's a minute shift, but Gawain knows. He's always known Galahad like no other. He used to think he knew all there was to know about him.

But he hadn't known about Tristan.

Does Tristan know Galahad the way he does? Can Tristan tell the minute Galahad drifts from his flight in dreams back into their waking world? Can Tristan anticipate the second when Galahad's knees will buckle, when his eyes will roll, when his back will arch?

Does Tristan love Galahad the way he does?

Galahad pulls himself closer to him, nuzzling his neck and Gawain shifts a touch to accommodate him. He drops a kiss instinctively into Galahad's hair and smoothes it away from where it's plastered to his forehead, revealing a pair of sleepy green eyes, filled with contentment – contentment that changes into worry in the space of a single blink.

Galahad knows that he has not slept. Galahad knows everything there is to know about him. And this time, there are no exceptions.

He closes his eyes, not being able to meet the concern he can see in those depths.

"Gawain?" Troubled. 

He does not answer, still hiding his eyes. He can feel Galahad pulling away a little. And then a hand is hesitantly cupping his cheek.

"Gawain." Pleading now, almost panicked. "Please look at me."

He can hear the traces of tears in Galahad's voice and his eyes snap open, almost of their own accord. He's never been able to deny Galahad anything. And he cannot stand the thought of making Galahad cry.

Galahad moves and rests his forehead against his own, making sure he has no way to escape, nowhere to hide. Not that he could have hidden anyway.

"Gawain, you were up all night." A statement, not a question, but Gawain feels the need to nod anyway. "Why?"

Gawain freezes. He doesn't know what to say, how to answer. It's the question that he's been dreading. Because he cannot lie to Galahad either.

But he does not want to tell the truth.

Instead, he kisses Galahad.

Galahad puts up a struggle at first but, if nothing else, Gawain knows exactly where and how to touch to have Galahad limp as a rag doll in his arms, panting and moaning his name like a prayer.

His name. Not Tristan's. _His._

Galahad is thrashing now, begging Gawain to finish him off, to do with him what needs to be done, but Gawain's not ready yet. He wants Galahad to remember – remember that he's _his_.

Galahad's so far gone he can hardly form words, but he's nodding, pleading, begging in some language Gawain thinks only he can understand.

But maybe Tristan understands it too.

He can't get the thoughts of Tristan out of his mind.

He wants to know whether Galahad's this willing, this pliant, this _responsive_ when it's Tristan in Gawain's place. He wants to know, even though he doesn't even know if Galahad's _done_ this with another.

He drops a kiss onto Galahad's damaged skin. It doesn't really look damaged to him. Not anymore, not after a night of studying it, tracing it. Marked certainly, but he has to admit that Tristan's quite an artist. Sweat flows through the valley of scars, making Galahad's back look like some sort of river delta viewed from some great, impossible height, flowing and flooding with life.

Galahad pushes back against him, twisting and squirming and moaning and pleading – and all thoughts of valleys and deltas leave Gawain's head altogether as he reaches down to grab Galahad's cock and just concentrates on fucking him.

But one thing does not leave his mind. It seems like it cannot leave his mind. One individual, one image, one face.

He cannot rid himself of the thoughts of Tristan and Galahad – _together_ – even as he brings them both to completion.

**A/N:** A note to say that this chapter has been cut. An NC-17 version can be found on my writing journal (the link is on my profile page). Alternately, you can email me for it.

Thanks for reading.

Dea


	3. II: Thought

**Title:** Catharsis  
**Author:** **dealiberty**  
**Pairing:** Gawain/Galahad  
**Rating:** R  
**Dedication:** For **eudaimon**, for being you.  
**A/N:** This fic is _complete_. A chapter will be posted twice a week, on Fridays and Tuesdays. Thanks to both **eudaimon** and **trinityc** for beta-ing, and the endless support you've given me.

_"I've sent him out."_

"Damn Arthur. Damn Tristan. Damn everyone." Gawain throws the knife he had been sharpening roughly against the wooden post on the far end of the stable, lodging it in the grainy depth. Not surprisingly, it's the exit that Tristan and his horse have just disappeared through.

_"Where the hell do you think you're going?"_

_"Out."_

_"I can see that, you fool, but I have to talk to you. Now."_

_"About Galahad? Talk when I get back, Gawain. I don't have time." A casual shrug of the shoulders and a smirk. "Until then..." And he was gone._

Just thinking back to the impostor of a conversation makes Gawain punch the ground in frustration. "Dam' it, Tristan, you bastard."

Gawain feels like killing something. Slowly and painfully. He feels like hurting something, making it hurt like he is hurting. This intense gut wrenching feeling of complete helplessness - this feeling of not knowing - is eating him up, and spitting him out again, just so that it can make him go through it all once more.

"Bloody inhumane feeling," he grumbles, getting up and pacing, trying to find a way to cure his restlessness.

But it doesn't help, so he flops uselessly back down again.

In times like this, when he was frustrated, hurt, angry - when he felt _anything_ at all - he used to go to Galahad. Galahad was his touchstone. But now...now he's not sure what to think. He's not sure if that touchstone, his constant in life, is really all that he thought it was.

He's starting to doubt Galahad, and there is nothing - not even the thought of Galahad with Tristan - that hurts him more.

He's never dreamt that he would try and hide from Galahad, never dreamt to try and get away, but here he is. Sitting in the stables. Avoiding Galahad.

Gawain knows it will not be long before the younger knight seeks him out. He knows because he left Galahad still sleeping in his bed this morning. No note. No nothing. Just left.

To talk to Tristan.

And now Tristan was gone. And no one knew when he was coming back.

And Gawain can't get him out of his mind.

"Dam' it all," he shouts, startling the horses, forcing him to go and calm them back down again. Good. Good - something to keep himself busy for a little while at least. Something to keep his mind off Galahad, and off Tristan.

_"Galahad." Gawain's hand has frozen over Galahad's back, and Galahad, in turn, freezes._

"Don't Gawain. Please don't ask." There's a pleading note - a desperate note - to his voice, and Gawain feels his heart stutter.

"Alright," Gawain says, forcing himself to ignore the marks. "Alright."

He's got fistfuls of hay in his hand, clenching until it's beginning to itch horribly. He throws it hard, like he threw the dagger earlier, but this time, it's futile. The wind floats the golden straws gently back to him - like the thoughts of the two knights he is trying to rid his mind off that just keep invading quietly.

He can feel his heart clenching, beating faster, more irregular, than normal. His breath is coming in little short, sharp gasps, drawing in oxygen that never seems to be enough. And there is a stinging in the corner of his eyes.

And Gawain realises that he's not so much angry as he is hurt.

Footsteps that pause at the entrance alert him to that fact that, as predicted, Galahad has found him.

"Gawain?" The voice is shaky; he's holding back tears then. And he's confused - very confused.

Slowly Gawain lifts his head.

Galahad's standing there staring incomprehensibly at Gawain, holding Gawain's knife in his hand.

"Gawain?" He asks again, taking an unsteady forward.

Gawain stands up and brushes the hay off himself, trying to assemble his wayward thoughts. It would not do to have Galahad see him fall apart. It would only hurt him more.

Once he has sufficiently collected himself, he throws a half-smile at Galahad, still standing, looking younger than he had in years, at the entrance.

Three strides. That is all it takes. Three strides and Galahad is burying his face in Gawain's neck, breathing hard.

He pulls away slightly to look into Gawain's eyes. "Gawain, what are you...."

And Gawain kisses him. No questions. Gawain's not ready for questions yet.

But this time, Galahad pushes him away, looking betrayed.

"No, Gawain," he whimpers, shaking his head and stepping backwards. "Please no. You're just going to fuck me, make me forget. You're going to fuck me and leave me sleeping. You're going to fuck me and leave me alone. Again. Like this morning."

He's almost sobbing, and Gawain's heart breaks. It's his fault again. His fault Galahad's hurting. He takes one step towards Galahad and draws the youth back into his arms.

"Please don't, Gawain. Please don't."

Gawain pulls him tighter into his embrace, running his hand through Galahad's curls, then resting his head there.

"I'm sorry, Galahad - so incredibly sorry. I just had something to do," he whispers soothingly, trying to lessen the pain. Galahad's starting to calm under his touch, breathing become less ragged, grasp on Gawain's tunic, less desperate.

"Did you get it done?" He asks, voice small - insecure.

"Yeah," Gawain lies - lies to Galahad for the first time in his life. "Yeah, I got it done."

And this time, Galahad lets Gawain kiss him.

He can taste the salty tears on Galahad's lips and Galahad's kissing back frantically as if afraid that Gawain would disappear.

Everything - Galahad's stance, his grip on Gawain's arms, his puffy eyes and tear-streaked face - all reminders of the hurt Gawain had inflicted, whether he meant to or not.

And Gawain wants nothing more than to make it better.

He lets his lips trail from Galahad's lips to his neck, biting lightly, then set about soothing it, making Galahad moan softly.

Slowly Gawain sinks to his knees and Galahad's eyes snap open to lock with his own.

Galahad's are bright with arousal and wide with fear. But he makes no move to push Gawain away as Gawain's hands slip beneath his kilt, lifting it up.

"I promise," Gawain whispers, breath blowing over the head of Galahad's shaft, making him whimper. "I promise I'll be here."

Never breaking eye-contact, Gawain swallows him with practised ease. And all Galahad can do is throw back his head and moan.

Galahad's slowly losing himself to the feel of Gawain's skilled lips on him. He's hardly able to think straight, but he's still afraid to let go.

He doesn't want to wake up alone. Never wants to be alone.

This morning, he woke up - alone - in Gawain's bed. For the first time since they'd been together, Galahad had drifted out of sleep only to find the heavy weight of Gawain's absence next to him.

And he was convinced that Gawain didn't want him anymore.

This morning, he was afraid that Gawain would be disgusted by him, would see him as tainted and impure - afraid that Gawain would love him no more. He thought that, to Gawain, he was to become nothing but a fuck, something to relieve his ache, to give him pleasure.

And those thoughts almost broke him.

To him, Gawain was everything: his world - and more.

Tristan. The situation with Tristan was complicated - _Tristan_ was complicated. But Tristan was....

Gawain does something with his tongue and Galahad loses his train of thought. And finds his release.

Distantly, he feels Gawain easing him to the ground and gathering him up close - and Galahad surrenders to the blanket of darkness.

Gawain cradles the younger knight to him, ignoring his own need for release. That's not important now. Nothing is as important as the man in his arms.

He's never seen Galahad so close to breaking and he doubts anyone - not even Tristan - has.

And it had been because of him.

As Galahad opens his bright eyes and smiles a sleepy, sated smile, Gawain thinks he's never seen Galahad look so young - so vulnerable. And Gawain's a little awed - maybe even _scared_ - at the thought that he holds so much power over another person.

Tristan be damned, Gawain tries to think. He will get to the bottom of this, he will find out why Tristan hurt Galahad - and Tristan will get what he deserves.

But it isn't worth hurting Galahad over.

He's trying to protect Galahad yet, as he's clearly seen, he's the one _hurting_ Galahad - maybe even more than Tristan did.

And it isn't worth that. Nothing is.

Gawain leans down and kisses the waiting lips gently. And Galahad trembles, leaning into him.

_Too much power._

And Tristan lurks at the back of his mind.

**A/N:** This chapter has been slightly tamed. The full version can be found on my journal.

Dea


	4. III: Duty

**Title:** Catharsis  
**Author:** **dealiberty**  
**Pairing:** Gawain/Galahad, Arthur/Lancelot  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Dedication:** For **eudaimon**, for being you.  
**A/N:** This fic is _complete_. A chapter will be posted twice a week, on Fridays and Tuesdays. Thanks to both **eudaimon** and **trinityc** for the endless support you've given me.

"Gawain."

It's Arthur and Gawain looks up from sharpening Galahad's sword to see his commander with, predictably, Lancelot by his side, striding towards him with purpose, face grim.

"Arthur. What do you need?" Gawain stands, placing the sword in its sheath. It has to be important; Lancelot isn't making jokes about Gawain playing housewife.

"We have a slight problem." It's got to be something bad since Gawain can actually _see_ Arthur drawing comfort and strength from Lancelot's presence, and there's that slight edge of visible concern in Lancelot's stance.

"What is it Arthur? What do you need?" He repeats, trying not to panic, not to fear.

But he cannot help it.

Arthur seems to have trouble finding his voice and, no matter how much worry Lancelot radiates, it doesn't seem to be enough.

And the hairs on Gawain's neck stand up as Arthur's façade cracks.

"I hate to ask, Gawain. I just...." Arthur chokes back a sob and Lancelot's hand is on his shoulder.

It was at times like this that Gawain remembered: Arthur was a man, first and foremost, and then a commander.

And Gawain knows that Arthur is about to ask him to do something akin to suicidal.

Gawain's hand is on Arthur's other shoulder before he's even registered moving, silently offering to do anything he's asked. One reason is that any of them, given the need, would walk in hell for Arthur. The other is because someone has to.

And if he doesn't, he knows who Arthur will go to next.

When Arthur does not continue, Gawain prompts him, repeating his question, this time in the form of an offer.

"What do you need, Arthur?"

Arthur's shadowed eyes meet his own.

_I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. You know that, if I didn't need to, I wouldn't ask this of you - of any of you._

Arthur never speaks the words, but Gawain sees them in his gaze - the gaze that he sees whenever Arthur asks them to go on a mission - and, just as silently, he nods.

Lancelot's eyes are soft as they look at him, and Gawain knows that he's really not going to like what he hears.

"East," Arthur barely whispers.

_East._

Gawain's eyes widen in comprehension, and he's already whirling around, gathering his weapons and reaching for his armour.

_East._

It was rumoured that there was a great historical site there, a place still imbued with the magic of the ancient people of Britain, with runes and treasures beyond anything they could ever imagine.

They had been told it had been found.

_East._

The direction Arthur had sent a group of scholars, accompanied only by Dinidan and Kay. In light armour.

They had been told it was safe.

They had been betrayed.

In the time that it takes Lancelot to piece Arthur back together, Gawain has already done everything he needs to do. His heart is pounding, blood pulsing through his veins at speeds it hasn't since his first battle. His hands are shaking and nausea is threatening to overwhelm him.

Better him than Galahad.

He doesn't want to do this - who wants to ride out to almost certain death? - but better him out there than Galahad.

He hears two sets of footsteps behind him and he numbs the anxiety as best as he can before turning around to face them.

"Warn them, Gawain. Do what you can. I have already sent Percival with word to Bors, Dagonet and the others." Arthur's head drops to Lancelot's shoulder, momentarily hiding his eyes, but soon forces it back up again, making himself meet Gawain's blank gaze. "I made a mistake, Gawain. I sent Tristan the wrong way."

Gawain closes his eyes at the mention of the name and resolutely pushes any thoughts to the back of his mind.

"Everyone makes mistakes, Arthur. You just risk more when you do. Don't put the guilt on yourself." Gawain mounts his horse, settling himself into the saddle, checking to make sure everything's in order.

He glances back at Lancelot and Arthur, still looking at him with regret, with sympathy, with sorrow. He wants to grin, smile, laugh, anything to ease that look - the look of people at a funeral - but he can't. He knows as well as they do that he could die - that he's quite _likely_ to die.

But he will not lose hope until it's all over.

"I have to ask for a favour," and they're nodding, so he continues, "unless I die, don't tell Galahad."

"Don't tell me what?" Galahad's just walking into the stable as he prepares to leave, eyes widening as he spots Gawain on his mount.

_Too late._

"Gawain?"

"And if I die," Gawain murmurs as he urges his horse into a trot, "take good care of him."

And Gawain rides past Galahad, who's standing there, looking so lost. Just like earlier. So much like earlier that Gawain's heart clenches and he slows enough to get a few words in. 

Lancelot and Arthur be damned. He may not survive for the teasing.

Those impossibly large green eyes look up at him pleadingly.

_Don't leave me. Don't go. Please don't die._

"I love you, Galahad. I'm sorry."

_Sorry for leaving without you._

Sorry for leaving you behind.

Sorry for taking away your choice to come with me.

Because I know you would.

And I cannot let you.

And Gawain is riding away, leaving Galahad standing, looking disoriented and abandoned, with the traces of tears in his eyes, at the entrance to the stable.

And Arthur and Lancelot to explain.

Galahad doesn't turn away until Gawain's a tiny dot in the distance, blending in with the trees, the sky, the horizon - until Gawain has disappeared completely.

Each stride of Gawain's impressive stallion tears at Galahad's heart.

No, Galahad corrects himself, each stride _takes_ his heart further and further away from him.

The tightness in his chest increases and fear surges up as he remembers Gawain's last request to the two men behind him.

_"And if I die, take good care of him."_

Slowly, Galahad turns to face his commander, still leaning on Lancelot for support, eyes still watching the distance.

Lancelot, however, is watching Galahad.

"Tell me," Galahad whispers, voice almost breaking. "Please, tell me."

Arthur's eyes are filled with pain, with regret, as the lock with Galahad's.

"He's gone east," he says simply. Dead. Maybe even a little disbelieving. "East."

"I don't understand." There's a pleading note in Galahad's voice that tells the others that Galahad did, in fact, understand. But he didn't believe it. Didn't _want_ to believe it. "What does that mean?"

Arthur closes his eyes to the begging he can hear in Galahad's voice.

"I'm sorry, Galahad. I'm so, so sorry."

It hits him like cold water; a freezing blanket that's thrown over him, soaking him to the bone.

Gawain has gone east.

Gawain has gone east _alone_.

Galahad doesn't realise that he's dropped to his knees. He doesn't feel Lancelot and Arthur rushing to his side. He doesn't know that there are tears streaming, unchecked, from his eyes.

All he knows is that Gawain is _gone_.

And no one knows when he'll be back - _if_ he'll be back.

He wants to throw a tantrum, to scream and cry and shout until his voice is hoarse. He wants to be angry, at Fate, at Arthur, at Lancelot - at Gawain. He wants to act like the little petulant child everyone says he is.

He wants to feel anything apart from this numbing, _crippling_ fear.

He wants Gawain.

And all Arthur and Lancelot can do is watch Galahad break.


	5. IV: Devastation

**Title:** Catharsis  
**Author:** **dealiberty**  
**Pairing:** Gawain/Galahad, Arthur/Lancelot  
**Rating:** R  
**Dedication:** For **eudaimon**, for being you.  
**A/N:** This fic is _complete_. A chapter will be posted twice a week, on Fridays and Tuesdays. Thanks to both **eudaimon** and **trinityc** for the endless support you've given me.

He goes through the routines, a certain detachment about every action, like he's watching himself go through the motions, not really there at all. 

He doesn't eat. He doesn't sleep. He doesn't speak.

He doesn't _feel_. He is completely numb.

It's been a week. And still no word from Gawain.

_One whole week._

Distantly, he knows that Lancelot's watching his every move. They take it in turns, Arthur and Lancelot, to try to coax him to eat a little, sleep a little, talk a little - to do _something_ that's not just staring blankly straight ahead.

When he's ordered to do his duties, he does so without a single word. Or a single flicker of emotion.

And Lancelot watches him.

He knows he should care, that he should feel something about being so closely monitored, like a child, as if he'll do something stupid, but the truth is he just _doesn't_. He can't seem to bring himself to care about anything. Apart from Gawain.

_One whole week._

He's sitting in the stables when he hears hoof beats - and he springs up, praying its Gawain. Lancelot is on his feet too, at the stable door, looking out.

But his shoulders are slumped - and Galahad knows it's not Gawain.

He sinks back into the hay, trying to stop defeat from permeating his soul - and his soul sinks back into darkness.

_It's not Gawain._

He doesn't notice his surroundings until a shadow falls on him; a silhouette in the door of the stable, the sunrise as his canvas.

And Galahad's dead eyes rise to meet Tristan's bright ones.

Tristan cannot help but start at the complete emptiness - the _defeat_ - he sees in those usually brilliant and fiery depths.

For a few minutes, he's at loss for words. Lancelot had not said much to him at the door - except beg him to just do _something_ and pointed him in this direction.

He wasn't expecting this. But he now understands the desperation in Lancelot's voice.

No one's heart could possibly beat steadily upon seeing a bright flame such as Galahad so dull, and Lancelot had watched it flicker and die.

_"Tristan, just make him DO something. Please."_

Tristan steels himself. Why him? Why not Gawain? In fact, where _was_ Gawain and how could he have left Galahad whilst he's like this?

"Galahad." Still nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition. "Galahad," he tries again, more force behind his voice. He leans down so that they're eye-level and slaps Galahad lightly on the cheek.

Finally, the eyes seem to focus on him.

"Where's Gawain?" Straight to the point. If there's one thing that would get a reaction out of Galahad, it's Gawain's name.

"Gone." It's nothing more than a murmur but, according to Lancelot, it was a murmur more than anyone else had gotten out of him.

_"Gone."_

"What?" It takes a few minutes for Tristan to process the word, and then he's shaking Galahad roughly by the shoulders.

Galahad's not even putting up a fight but just simply letting Tristan shake him like a rag doll.

"Gone. East." The tears flow, and Galahad's still looking just as _lifeless_ as a rag doll.

_East._

"Galahad. No. No. Please tell me he didn't go alone. Tell me you didn't _let_ him go alone." Tristan's shaking is getting desperate now, his fingers digging into Galahad's shoulders so hard that it's going to leave bruises - but Galahad's still not responding.

He's wordlessly mouthing the words. No sound leaves his lips but the words are as clear to Tristan as thunder.

_East. Alone._

"How long, Galahad? Tell me how long he's been gone."

_East. Alone. One whole week._

Each question Tristan asks gets a silent answer and the muted mantra gets a few words longer.

_One week._

"Oh Gods." Tristan abruptly lets go of Galahad, the momentum making the youth land roughly in the hay, Tristan's anger and helplessness making him push a little harder than he meant to. "Oh Gods."

"He's gone, Tristan. Gawain's _gone_." It's a whimper and Galahad's shuddering without Tristan even touching him. Galahad is breaking all over again.

And Tristan's control finally snaps.

"Galahad, you _fool_," he shouts, his own fear making take out his anger on the younger knight. Distantly, he realises he's not helping, and that Galahad's really done nothing wrong. Distantly he knows that there'll be hell to pay later.

He usually never loses control, but this time, Tristan's too far gone to stop.

"You absolute fool! What are you doing still _here_? Why has no one gone after him? Why are you sitting here feeling sorry for yourself?" He throws his hands up in exasperation as Galahad continues to rock a little, but those eyes are focused _on_ him now, rather than looking through him. "Self-pity will not save Gawain's life. Have you so little faith in him? Do you think he will die so easily?"

Now, Galahad's trying to protest, trying to defend himself - and Tristan can see the self-loathing, the anger start to kindle in those brilliant eyes.

Anger at himself. Anger at him. And Tristan realises that he's done what Lancelot asked: he's got Galahad to _do_ something - even if it's probably not what Lancelot had in mind.

"Grab your weapons, Galahad. You're the only one who can bring Gawain back alive."

Each word Tristan shouts at him hits Galahad like a slap to the face, making his head spin and his world turn.

_"Self-pity will not save Gawain's life."_

"Have you so little faith in him?"

"You're the only one who can bring Gawain back alive."

And Tristan's already off to find Arthur, turning around only to shout at him.

"Get up, Galahad. Get up and prepare."

It's pure, blind luck that brings Percival, with Bors and Dagonet behind him, back home just as they're preparing to leave. They don't stop for supplies or to give their horses some rest, but just join the formation of knights, ready to go out and aid their brothers.

Tristan rides on ahead, making sure the path is clear, that this isn't another trap. He's back in control, ice-cold and sending chilling glances in Galahad's direction.

And Galahad rides between Arthur and Lancelot.

His mind is a mess and, if Lancelot had had it his way, he would still be back in his room. But Tristan had insisted and Tristan had been in one of those moods.

And he had mentioned the fact that Gawain would do anything for Galahad - even if it's not dying.

And Arthur had relented.

They ride hard and fast and it does not take more than two days to get to village. The rumoured shrine lies over the hills, just outside the forests - how had they not seen the potential for attack before?

But two days is more than enough for Galahad to dig himself into a hole of self-loathing.

_Foolish._

Useless.

Not worthy.

He thinks he's failed Gawain. He didn't go after Gawain. He didn't have faith in Gawain. He didn't _do_ anything, just sat around, dying inside. He hadn't even _tried_. And he didn't deserve Gawain's devotion, Gawain's love. He didn't deserve _Gawain_.

Gawain shouldn't love him, shouldn't care about him.

But it doesn't change the fact that Gawain is his world.

And he'd needed Tristan to remind him of his duties.

If Gawain dies, it will be Galahad's fault.

They ride through the village, ignoring the fearful faces and worried glances, ignoring the pleading and weeping and eyes peaking out of shuttered windows - ignoring everything but the need to reach their comrades.

When they finally get there, they can only stop - and stare.

Galahad's off his horse and flying towards the centre of the ruins, sobbing Gawain's name before either Arthur or Lancelot can stop him - before they even register him moving.

Gawain's body is covered in blood - so much blood, so many wounds that someone other than Galahad might not even recognise him. He's been stripped of clothing and tied to a cross on the ground, arms spread wide, in mockery of Arthur's god.

And his axe has been placed just out of reach.

His wrist is chafed raw, testimony that, whatever had been done to him, Gawain had never given up, never cried for mercy, never begged.

Whatever had happened, Gawain had wanted to live.

Galahad drops to his knees by Gawain's side, fingers automatically searching for a pulse, eyes looking for a heartbeat and ears straining to hear Gawain's breathing.

He's never prayed before but the sight of Gawain like this is enough to have him pleading to a god - any god - to spare Gawain. To let Gawain live.

Gawain didn't need to love him anymore, Gawain just needed to be alive.

He's so relieved to see the rise and fall of Gawain's chest and feel his beating pulse that tears come, unbidden, to his eyes and he's almost hyperventilating.

His hands shake like they've never done before as he undoes the ropes binding Gawain, all the while whispering his name like a prayer. And begging like he's never begged in his life.

_Be alright. Please, be okay. You don't have to love me. You don't have to care about someone as worthless as me. Just be okay. Just live Gawain. Live..._

Once he's finally got Gawain's hands free, he moves his own to cup Gawain's face lightly. His fingers drift slowly over Gawain's cheek - he's still warm - and tears spill onto his hand, onto Gawain's cheek.

And Gawain's eyes flutter open.

"Galahad."

It's a sigh, no more than a breath passing through parched lips, but for Galahad, someone who's been craving to hear that voice for over a week, it's as loud as Bors' war cry.

But much, much more beautiful.

Galahad's eyes widen and then he's babbling again. 

"I'm sorry Gawain, I'm so, so sorry. I'm so worthless...I was just...I...I...You don't have to...just..." His voice breaks and his breath hitches and he can't seem to form complete sentences. "Please don't leave me. Please don't die. Don't go. Please. Don't leave me...Please..."

Gawain leans a little into Galahad's touch, eyes drifting shut, overcome by exhaustion. His throat it raw and his voice rough from something Galahad doesn't want to think about, but the one that Gawain whispers, Galahad thinks, might be the most wonderful thing he's ever heard.

"Never."

And this time, Galahad has faith.

Tristan reappears from the surrounding woods just as Galahad begins to untie Gawain's bound wrists.

By the relief Tristan can see in the way Galahad's hands are shaking, the desperation to get Gawain loose, Tristan knows that Gawain's alive.

He still lives. He's still breathing. His heart is still beating.

He's alive and that's all that matters.

Tristan lets out a breath he hadn't know he's been holding and tears his eyes away from their reunion.

Gawain's seen Galahad. Gawain knows Galahad still needs him. Gawain will live.

He can see Arthur bending over Dinidan's abused body. It's been speared to the ground at the shoulder and Dinidan's eyes are opened wide in horror.

And Lancelot closes those eyes for the last time.

Tristan's eyes then seek out Kay. And when they finally land on his battered body, Tristan almost wishes he'd never looked.

Bors and Dagonet untie him from what looks like a ceremonial altar - and Tristan looks back to Gawain and Galahad.

And thanks Fate that Gawain is still alive.

He is about to say that Gawain is lucky, but he's not so sure. Dinidan and Kay look like they'd died quickly and Gawain - Tristan doesn't like the look of the injuries Gawain has.

And Tristan doesn't like the thought that Gawain had been made to lie useless as Dinidan and Kay died, as the Woads tortured - as Tristan doesn't doubt they did - both them and Gawain himself - that Gawain had been left there to die slowly as a message to Arthur.

Arthur's standing completely still, eyes huge with dismay, and Lancelot has his head bowed, shaking with anger and horror and lost, and Tristan approaches them.

"It's all clear. No one's here. They must have attacked - and left." Arthur nods, still staring around, horrified.

"I...Tristan...I...don't know what...I can't..."

"I know, Arthur. We all know."

And Tristan lets his eyes rest on the pair in the centre of destruction clinging onto hope, fixed on the image that is somehow so beautiful, like a painting, on such a bloody background, until Dagonet arrives to help.


	6. V: Uncertainty

**Title:** Catharsis  
**Author:** **dealiberty**  
**Pairing:** Gawain/Galahad, Arthur/Lancelot  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Dedication:** For **eudaimon**, for being you.  
**A/N:** This fic is _complete_. A chapter will be posted twice a week, on Fridays and Tuesdays. Thanks to both **eudaimon** and **trinityc** for the endless support you've given me.

He doesn't know what to do - what he _can_ do - to help. He hovers by Gawain's head as Tristan, Dagonet and some Roman surgeon clean Gawain up.

Each wound that's revealed, each wound under the blood, makes Galahad feel more and more sick. This shouldn't have happened to Gawain. Not out there, bound and suffering. Not out there, watching Dinidan and Kay die. Not without Galahad.

It was Galahad's fault.

He didn't do _anything_ - just sat and sank into depression because he'd lost Gawain. And now, he might lose him forever.

He shakes that last thought from his head.

Gawain had promised he'd stay alive. He'd promised to live. And Galahad has faith.

Once they finish cleaning and patching him up, Dagonet pats Galahad lightly on the head and the surgeon leaves.

"He'll be alright," Dagonet tells him. "He's strong."

Galahad nods, trying to stop the tears from falling.

The others don't know what to say. They're still there, Arthur and Lancelot and Tristan, but none of them know what to say or how to comfort him. They'd always left that to Gawain.

Without Gawain, none of them are sure how to handle Galahad at all - especially when the Galahad they're used to dealing with isn't a sobbing mess of a boy.

Still so young. Galahad's still so young.

Arthur shakes his head, stands up and gives a glance filled with meaning to Lancelot and walks out; Lancelot is following him before the door's even closed.

Lancelot will be there when Arthur breaks - he'll be there to pick up the pieces and put them together again.

Whereas Galahad....

Dagonet gives him one final pat on the head and he too leaves.

Galahad's still broken.

The touch on the chin is surprisingly gentle for Tristan, and Galahad looks up to see the other man hovering near him.

"Watch him for a while," he says. "I'll come back later to change the bandages." And he too disappears.

Galahad sits with his head in his hands, eyes closed, trying to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill - again. He doesn't want to cry. He wants to be strong for Gawain. But the sight of Gawain so abused, so harmed - not broken, never broken - is just too much for him. And he lets the tears fall.

_Useless. So useless. And so worthless. Unworthy. Undeserving._

It's not long before he's on his knees by Gawain's bed, clasping Gawain's hand - and sobbing his heart out.

"Don't die Gawain. Don't go. Please. Please don't go. You don't have to...you don't have to love me. You don't even have to care about me. Just don't leave me alone. Don't die..."

He stays there whispering his quiet mantra like a prayer to the only thing he's ever had faith in: Gawain.

That is how Tristan finds him hours later: on his knees, head on Gawain's bed, hand in Gawain's.

Tristan sighs, pausing at the door.

Sometimes, he tries to convince himself that he doesn't care for the pup. Really. But at times like this - sometimes - he's not so sure.

And he doesn't quite like the implications of that thought.

There's a presence behind him and it takes him longer than usual to realise that it's Arthur, who pauses at the door as well, staring in at the heartbreaking sight inside.

"Galahad," Arthur says, moving into the room. "Go and bathe, eat and sleep."

Tristan thinks it's meant to be an order, but it comes out as more of a request and Galahad begins to argue.

"Don't Galahad. Don't argue." He takes one step into the room and Galahad's gaze levels on him, shooting daggers. He ignores the glare and plays to Galahad's weakness. "Gawain's not going to be happy when he wakes up and you look like you're half dead; Gawain, certainly, won't be pleased."

His tone is cold - colder than he'd like - but he knows it's the only way to make Galahad do anything.

And he's willing to play the bad guy if it means....

Galahad, half storms out of the room - half, because he's still reluctant to leave Gawain's side, but he's too angry at Tristan, too afraid that Tristan's words would be true to stay.

Arthur gives him a smile of reluctant thanks; not happy with the method but glad for the result.

"I'll change the bandages," he informs Arthur, turning back to Gawain's bed. "Then I'll watch him until Galahad comes back. It's too much to hope that he'll be gone too long."

Arthur nods; loath as he is to do them, Arthur knows there are other things he needs to attend to - like Dinidan's and Kay's funerals.

When Arthur leaves, Tristan drops lightly to his knees beside Gawain.

"You fool, Gawain," he whispers, voice shaking a little before he can steady it. "You absolute, total and utter fool."

He's drifting somewhere between consciousness and sleep.

Sometimes, he can hear Galahad's begging, his tears, his pain, but then, before Gawain can comfort him, he's drawn back under again.

But each time, he's coming closer and closer to the surface.

When his eyes finally flutter open, there's a face watching him. Those eyes widen slightly with shock, which is followed by a look of such complete relief that Gawain's a little stunned - and then the owner is gone, and Gawain hears the door opening.

It takes him a few more minutes, listening to the retreating footsteps, to realise that the face was Tristan's.

Tristan's back.

Then he hears the sound of running feet on stone and the door bursts open. The next thing he knows, the bed's dipped and Galahad's attached to his arms, tears flowing freely, babbling out a stream of words that Gawain can't quite get his head around.

Slowly, stiff and bruised, Gawain tugs at Galahad, wanting to see those beautiful eyes, that dazzling smile on the adored face that kept him alive and whole and _trying_ on those endlessly pain-filled days.

And it's only when Galahad raises his face to him that Gawain can make out what he's saying.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Gawain. I'm sorry. So worthless. So useless. So unworthy. So undeserving. You don't have to love me. You don't have to care. Just be here. Just don't leave me. Just...."

And Gawain kisses him. Galahad kisses him back as desperately as a man, in a desert, drinks water.

When they part, Galahad is flushed and breathing hard and he lets his head rest lightly on Gawain's shoulder, leaving small trails of light kisses on his neck.

Gawain slowly, agonisingly shifts slightly sideways, wincing at the pain, to make room for Galahad. He doesn't get too far but Galahad's small enough to fit, moulding right into his side like a kitten curling to its mother, but so carefully, painfully aware of Gawain's injuries.

And Gawain feels as if he's finally come home.

He gives small contented sigh and rests his head atop of Galahad's.

It's been worth it. Being back here, Galahad falling asleep in his arms - it makes it all worth it. Worth the fact that he had been tortured because he'd refused to beg for death, refused to give up, refused to break.

Because the thought that he'd never see Galahad again hurt far more than any torture they could inflict on him.

_"Break my body, but you'll never break my soul."_

He'd spat the words at the Woads, repeated it like a mantra, like his lifeline, as they'd tied him excruciatingly tightly to the cross. And he'd been telling the truth. They could never break his soul as long as its keeper was safe. And it had made them angry - they had wanted Arthur to find him broken.

He closes his eyes and wills away the memories. Not now. Not with Galahad sleeping lightly in his arms. He would not think of them.

He hears the door opening and closing, and then Arthur's face is in his line of vision.

"You're supposed to be sleeping, Gawain." He scolds lightly before sending Galahad a fond look and a relieved smile. "I'm glad at least one of you is."

Gawain can see the relief in Arthur's eyes as they shift to look over to Galahad. Galahad's thinner, there are shadows under his eyes, his grip on Gawain's shirt is desperate, head resting on Gawain's chest, listening to his heart beating steadily - and it all comes together.

"He's not been sleeping nor eating, has he? He's not been himself"

Arthur's surprised by the question - more a statement than a question - his eyes snapping back to Gawain, startled, and Gawain can see the answer in their depths.

"It was that bad, huh?" Unconsciously, Gawain pulls Galahad a little closer to him, and Arthur's lips curl up slightly, the relief still bright and clear in his features.

"But it's better now."

It must have been bad, Gawain muses. It must have been very bad to have Arthur so worried - not that Arthur didn't worry about everything, he just didn't usually worry this much. And the relief is not usually this intense.

"Rest, Gawain, and recover; he needs you." Arthur nods his head towards Galahad, clasps Gawain lightly on the shoulder and turns to leave.

"Arthur, how long has Tristan been back?"

"He came back just as we set out to find you," Arthur answers. "He's gone out again, though. I sent him to see how far the Woads had gone."

A shiver runs up Gawain's spine as Arthur's words bring back the images of those days abruptly to the front of his mind, and he forces himself to concentrate on Galahad - the rise and fall of his chest, the light puffing of Galahad's breath on his neck, Galahad's warmth and heartbeat beneath his hand - to ground himself.

"Gawain?" Arthur. Concerned.

"I'm alright. Sorry." Gawain opens his eyes again to smile at Arthur, his heartbeat slowing.

He's back. He's home. He's safe.

"I'm alright."

Apparently satisfied, Arthur turns around and leaves Gawain to think.

So many questions. So many unanswered questions.

There were enough before he went but now there are even more. Like why Tristan had looked at him like that, why Tristan had been watching him so closely anyway? Why was Galahad acting like this? Why did Galahad think he'd not care anymore?

And what part did Tristan play in it all? What part does Tristan play in turning his world upside down?

And Tristan is still not there to answer him.


	7. VI: Realisation

**Title:** Catharsis   
**Author:** **dealiberty**   
**Pairing:** Gawain/Galahad, Arthur/Lancelot   
**Rating:** R   
**Dedication:** For **eudaimon**, for being you.   
**A/N:** This fic is _complete_. A chapter will be posted twice a week, on Fridays and Tuesdays. Thanks to both **eudaimon** and **trinityc** for the endless support you've given me.

It's dark. And he's alone. He's bound by the hands again - and the legs - and there's this awful screaming somewhere in the distance. It's getting louder and louder and closer and closer. It's an agony-filled, spine-chilling scream that's torn from someone's throat in the midst of the most horrendous torture - and it's torture just listening to it. And then Gawain recognises the voice.

Galahad.

There's a Woad hovering over him now, sending Galahad's broken body into his arms; those lifeless eyes are staring up at him, those lips, cold and unmoving, and there's blood, so much blood.

And Gawain screams.

He feels himself being roughly shaken and a panicked voice is calling out his name. But he doesn't want to open his eyes, doesn't want to look and see Galahad's dead body, doesn't want to believe.

But it's that same voice - the same as the screaming. But this isn't tortured. This is alive. And it's calling his name desperately.

Gawain snaps his eyes open, locking them with Galahad's huge frightened ones. They're dancing with emotion, firelight glittering off the unshed tears - and so, so _alive_.

And Gawain buries his head in the younger knight's neck, revelling in the life that pulses through his veins.

It's been a month and he still cannot rid himself of those nightmares.

He's not told a soul the details of what happened - not even Galahad - and only just gave a brief report to Arthur of how he had got there just as the Woads had attacked. He has not told anyone of what kinds of horrors they had inflicted on him. They know of the physical wounds because they're there in plain sight, but the mental and emotional, they can only guess at.

And he doesn't want anyone to know - not yet.

By now, Galahad knows not to ask.

He just lets Gawain hold him for as long as Gawain needs. And for that, Gawain's truly grateful.

But there are thoughts that linger in his mind.

_"What aren't you telling me, Galahad? What are the reasons you are so afraid that I will be angry, that I will not love you when thoughts of you are all that has kept me alive?"_

Gawain does not ask - he is too afraid of his own secrets - but he knows that there's a reason that there's a slight desperation in Galahad's every action near him, as if he's afraid that his time with Gawain will not last.

And Gawain suspects that the reason is somewhat Tristan-based.

And Gawain hadn't been here to stop Tristan from hurting Galahad - again.

Gawain sighs, pulling Galahad even closer, resting his head on Galahad's curls taking comfort in the warmth in his arms and, when Galahad tips his head up to look up at him, he can't resist kissing those slightly parted lips.

Galahad's taste is intoxicating. It's addictive to the extreme and Gawain can't seem to get enough of him. He rolls Galahad onto his back and slips his leg between Galahad's, which part to accommodate him. He lets his lips drift downwards, nipping at Galahad's neck, making him arch and moan.

It's been over a month. Over a month since they'd done this. Over a month since he's touched Galahad like this.

"Gawain," Galahad breathes. "Gawain, you're hurt."

"I'm better now." It been over a month because Galahad seems to still think he's made of glass, that he'll break. "Galahad, don't..."

And Galahad pushes him lightly and flips their positions.

"Let me."

And Gawain's never been able to deny him anything.

He's enjoying the feel of Galahad's lips on him.

Then, unbidden, an image instils itself into his mind.

Galahad. On his knees. And Tristan, face flushed and wild, losing himself in Galahad.

Gawain's eyes fly open as he comes.

Galahad milks him clean and Gawain watches him, panting, eyes wide with shock.

Was Galahad not enough? Where were these thoughts coming from? Ever since that day - the day he had questioned Galahad about his scars - Tristan had never left his thoughts. Always there, always lurking - just like Tristan.

His love for Galahad hasn't lessened - of that at least, he's sure.

But there was also no doubt that he wanted Tristan. Wanted Tristan together - with Galahad. Even though Tristan had hurt him.

Galahad - Gawain thinks as he watches Galahad work himself to completion, biting his bottom lip, letting out only soft mewling sounds that touch Gawain to the core - Galahad is everything.

But Tristan, however much he wants to deny it, is starting to become something more - more than Gawain ever thought possible.

Galahad curls up beside Gawain, letting his head drop to his favourite place at the crook between Gawain's right shoulder and his neck, closing his eyes.

He knows that, perhaps, he's being a little too cautious, that Gawain won't break, not after a month of healing, but he wants to be sure. He wants to be the one looking after Gawain, caring for Gawain and protecting Gawain for once. He's had enough of letting Gawain down.

He's had enough of being weak.

Gawain doesn't seem to think any less of him, maybe Gawain didn't know, but whatever the case, he wants to show Gawain that he's trying - trying to be everything Gawain deserves - so that when he does find out, he won't send him away.

He doesn't care if Gawain didn't love him; he just wanted to stay by his side.

He wants to help Gawain too, help him to get over what had happened to him, but he can't because he knows Gawain's not ready to tell him.

And his subconscious seems to remind him of his faults, mocking him - his subconscious that sounds suspiciously like Tristan.

_It shouldn't have been like this. If you'd been stronger, if you'd gone with him rather than broken, if only you tried - you can't protect him. You're useless - unworthy of his love. Do you ever think of him, or is it always you, you, you? _

Do you love him?

The last statement is clearer that the others. Not his imagination - but his memory.

He's always needed Tristan to remind him of his duties to Gawain. And he hates that, hates that more than anything - hates _him_. He hates Tristan.

Because Tristan's always known better than he has - always known what Gawain needs.

And he's always questioned Galahad's intentions.

"I do love him, dam' it. I do. I care. I really do. I'm just useless. I'm unworthy. But I love him. I know I don't deserve him - don't deserve his love - but I love him and I..."

"Galahad?"

Gawain. He had been speaking out loud. He buries his head further into Gawain's neck, tears threatening to fall again. He doesn't want them to. He's done too much crying lately.

"Galahad?" Gawain pulls away, tipping his chin, forcing his tear-filled eyes to meet Gawain's caring, worried ones. "What's going on?"

He doesn't want to lose Gawain. He doesn't want to lose Gawain to Tristan - but Tristan's always _known_. And Galahad's not worthy.

"I...Nothing," he answers, trying to turn his face away, to hide the tears, but Gawain won't let him.

"Don't say that, Galahad." A finger gently wipes the tears away. "And there is no shame in tears. Not in front of me." Gawain kisses his eyes, which drift shut in an attempt to hide them again from Gawain's view. "Tell me what you mean?"

He doesn't want to lie. He really doesn't want to lie to Gawain. He can't. So he keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to see hate or loathing replacing the love, not wanted to see the shocked, pained expression - not wanting to see the disappointment.

"I'm sorry. I'm not worthy Gawain. Not worthy of your love. You shouldn't love me. You shouldn't care. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I didn't go with you. I didn't...." Galahad's eyes snap open when Gawain says nothing. "Please, Gawain. Please don't send my away. Let me stay. You don't have to love me, just don't send me away."

"Oh Galahad," Gawain whispers, pulling the almost hysterical youth to him. "Don't be silly." He drops a kiss to Galahad's head, and cradles him close; his whole body is shaking, wracked with sobs he can no longer suppress. "Don't say that. Never say that. Let me decide who is worthy of my love, alright? Let me decide. And let me love."

And all Galahad can do is cling on to keep from drowning in his own misery.

It's been a few days - a few days of Gawain trying to convince Galahad that he's not angry, that he still loves him, that he won't stop - and Galahad's still unsure of himself. Gawain's really starting to wonder how he'll ever convince him otherwise.

_"If not you, Galahad, who else? Who else is so worthy of my love?"_

He'd asked once. And Galahad had frozen.

Gawain sighs. Who is it then that Galahad believed was more worthy than he is?

Somehow, Gawain thinks he knows.

Somehow, Gawain thinks it's Tristan. Tristan who's put these ideas - or kept them there, let them fester - in Galahad's head. But he can't figure out why - why Tristan's put them there and why Galahad's so worried.

Just as he can't figure out the scars on Galahad's back. Or his own mixed up feelings.

And that infuriating man has been gone for a month. And he's still not back. He's not back to answer Gawain's questions.

And he lingers in Gawain's mind, never giving him any form of reprieve.

There's someone walking out of the stable just as Gawain and Galahad round the corner, intent on feeding and grooming their horses.

A pair of sharp eyes catches his own, almost physically halting him. Galahad, too, freezes, seemingly pinned by the intent stare - and the figure standing at the stable door.

_Tristan._

**A/N: **This chapter has been slightly edited to comply with rules. Please see my writing livejournal (link on userinfo page) for full version.


	8. VII: Confrontation

**Title:** Catharsis  
**Author:** **dealiberty**  
**Pairing:** Gawain/Galahad, Gawain/Tristan  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Dedication:** For **eudaimon**, for being you.  
**A/N:** This fic is _complete_. A chapter will be posted twice a week, on Fridays and Tuesdays. Thanks to both **eudaimon** and **trinityc** for the endless support you've given me.

_Tristan._

"Gawain, Galahad." Tristan acknowledges them, not seeming at least a small bit ruffled by seeing the two knights, one staring in shock, the other glowering at him.

"Tristan." His voice is cold, and Galahad is still standing, frozen, behind him.

Calmly, Tristan simply raises an eyebrow in question - and the days before his mission, the week of his mission and the month of healing afterwards - and Tristan being away all becomes too much for Gawain. And Gawain rounds on him.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Gawain gestures, infuriated, to Galahad who's behind him, staring at them, eyes wide with dread, fear and an amalgam of other emotions that Gawain doesn't have the patience or the time to read - not right now.

His lips curl into a snarl. "You don't know what I'm talking about," he mocks. "Dam' it all if I'll believe you. It was you, wasn't it? You who told him that he was useless because he didn't come with me?"

Tristan looks him in the eye before shrugging and answering. "I only told him the truth."

"The truth? You want to know the truth, Tristan?" He takes a step forward - a step closer to Tristan - shaking with suppressed rage. "The truth is, I'm _glad_ Galahad didn't come with me. If he had done, I would be _dead_."

"And why would that be, Gawain? Because you had someone to watch your back?" Tristan's calm, cool and collected façade is starting to crack, there's emotion in his voice now - emotion Gawain can't quite place.

"Do you think I would have protected myself had Galahad been there? Do you think I'd be watching my back - or his? I had Kay and Dinidan watching my back, and that helped a hell of a lot, didn't it?" Gawain balls up his hands into fists, anger overcoming the fear of talking about what had happened. He looks Tristan in the eyes, his own eyes flashing. "I didn't break, Tristan. I didn't break like they wanted me to. Kay and Dinidan, they begged to die. They gave up - they _broke_ - but I _didn't break_." He pauses, glancing back to throw a fond smile at Galahad. "Because Galahad was safe. If Galahad had been there - with Kay and Dinidan - I would have broken. I have no doubt. His pain, his death would have broken me, Tristan, and I would have _begged_ to die."

"You don't know the truth either, Gawain." Tristan's hands are clenched too, in an effort to contain his anger. "You don't know the sorry state I found Galahad in. Just sitting there, doing nothing, Lancelot and Arthur panicking - if I was Arthur, I'd thank his God everyday that I came back when I did. Otherwise you'd still be there, Gawain, tied to a cross, dying. And Galahad would still be broken."

Startled, Gawain tries to catch Galahad's eyes, but they're turned away, hiding from him. And it all makes sense to Gawain.

_So that's why he feels like he does, that he thinks Tristan's more worthy than he is._

"Better breaking here than there. Thoughts of him kept me _alive_, Tristan. Thoughts of him kept me _whole_."

"You're always protecting him, Gawain. You're always watching out for _him_. Do you never think of yourself?" Tristan's taken a step closer and, when Gawain turns back around to face him, he's right there in front of him. Touching distance. "Dam' it Gawain, he's not your _world_, he's not _you_. You cannot always protect him."

And Gawain attacks him. It's irrational, he knows that, Tristan can beat him, especially now, when he's still slightly stiff from the injuries, but at that moment, rationality is the last thing on Gawain's mind.

He just wants to hurt Tristan.

"You'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Tristan? All about me not always being able to protect him. You can hurt him, over and over, and I can't do a damn thing about it." Surprisingly, Tristan makes no move to defend himself, no move to stop Gawain, to block his punches, to dodge his kicks, but Gawain's too far gone to think of the implications. All he wants to do is take the opportunity to hurt Tristan as much as he possibly can. "The scars, Tristan. Tell me. Tell me about those damnable scars."

"You're always protecting him, Gawain. Always there for him. To cater to his every needs. You treat him like a prince, you pamper him."

He slams Tristan against the ground, pinning him in place. "Answer the question."

"What was I meant to think? You always are doing everything, Galahad doing nothing. I doubted he was in it for the right reasons. I doubted he loved you."

That makes Gawain freeze, lips curling even more, and he lets out a growl. A test. Tristan was testing Galahad? It didn't make any sense. He slams him against the ground once more. "What the hell do you care?" he demands, confused and reeling from all that those simply words could mean. "Why would you care?"

Instead of answering the question, Tristan gives Gawain an enigmatic smile. "How did you feel, Gawain, when you knew those were my marks? Did you feel betrayed?"

_He can feel his heart clenching, beating faster, more irregular, than normal. His breath is coming in little short, sharp gasps, drawing in oxygen that never seems to be enough. And there is a stinging in the corner of his eyes._

And Gawain realises that he's not so much angry as he is hurt.

"Were you angry? Angry that he's not yours alone - that my marks litter his back? Angry that I had seen and marked what was yours?"

_He is not yours alone._

_Someone else has seen and marked what belongs to you._

Gawain's face pales. He's been thinking about this. Tristan seems to be plucking thoughts from his mind. All those fears that whisper to him at night, all those accusations and claims and damnations that have haunted him - all out in the open.

"Were you angry that, for once, you could not protect him?"

_You could not protect him._

He's about to punch Tristan again. But Tristan runs his fingers gently through Gawain's hair before asking one final question, eyes soft and oddly vulnerable. It's a whisper - but to them, it's as loud as any war drum.

"Did it make you think of me?"

Instead of punching Tristan, Gawain kisses him - hard - roughly and angrily and fervently. And Tristan's kissing back just as feverishly.

And Galahad's world breaks.

He had thought this was a bad idea since Gawain had rounded on Tristan, wanting to defend him.

Gawain would find out the truth.

Gawain would find out that he's useless - and that Tristan cares.

And Gawain would go to Tristan - because Tristan was _Tristan_.

And Galahad would be left alone.

He's comforted when Gawain defends him, turns to smile at him, but he's scared - so scared that it'll all come out.

_Otherwise you'd still be there, Gawain, tied to a cross, dying. And Galahad would still be broken._

He can't look Gawain in the eye. He wants to disappear. He's ashamed - ashamed of not doing a darn thing. He knows - he knows he should have but he didn't. And Tristan did. And Gawain...now Gawain knew. He wants to leave, leave so he won't have to watch the realisation of his worthlessness slip into Gawain's eyes.

But Gawain still defends him. After all that he's done, and not done, Gawain still acts like he doesn't mind - acts like he still cares.

So Galahad stays.

He's worried when Gawain attacks Tristan, worried about Gawain being hurt - but Tristan holds back. Because Tristan cares. Galahad knows that, but Gawain doesn't - and Galahad has a sneaky suspicion that Gawain's about to find out. And so Galahad worries. They fight, and he worries - and he's afraid of being left alone.

Then, Gawain kisses Tristan.

And he can no longer breathe.

He can't move. His eyes are fixed. On Gawain. Kissing Tristan. And he can't tear his eyes away. It's both incredibly - Galahad realises with a jolt - arousing and incredibly, incredibly painful.

He can't quite believe what he's seeing. After Gawain had defended him - after everything - he's kissing _Tristan_.

His breathing quickens as it hits him - hard. His greatest fear of losing Gawain - to death, to hatred, to _Tristan_ - has finally come true.

And he is alone.

His vision blurs and Galahad realises that he's crying.

When he finally gains control over his legs, he stumbles, turns and runs.

The sound of footsteps running away from where they're lying draws Gawain out of his daze, and he realises where he is - and who he's with.

_Galahad._

He pulls abruptly away from Tristan, eyes turning the way Galahad had disappeared, before looking back down at Tristan, pinned under him.

Tristan's flushed, mouth bruised and swollen, breathing hard, eyes bright. And Gawain can't say that he regrets it - regrets kissing him.

Tristan apparently sees the conflict in Gawain's eyes, and pushes Gawain slowly off him.

"Go to him," he urges. "Go to him and make things right, Gawain."

"But, Tristan..." He's torn. He wants to go to Galahad, there's no doubt about it, but he doesn't want Tristan to think he regrets it.

Tristan gives him another little shove. "Go. We'll talk later. Go to him."

"Later then."

"Later."

And, with one final glance at Tristan, lying flushed and bruised on the ground, Gawain takes off after Galahad.

"Galahad. Galahad, wait. Please, wait." But footsteps were still resolutely moving away from him, if anything, going even faster. "Galahad, please. Please, wait, let me explain. Talk to me, please." He could see Galahad now, just a few meters away. His shoulders are shaking, he's breathing fast and his steps are unsteady.

Galahad's crying.

"Galahad, please, just listen to me," Gawain pleads and Galahad's step falters, giving him a chance to catch Galahad's hand, pulling him around to face him. He reaches up to cup Galahad's cheek, thumb brushing away the tears there. At first Galahad flinches, trying to pull away, but, almost unwillingly, he leans into the touch. "Galahad..."

"Gawain! Galahad! Come quickly! We're under attack."

Galahad eyes widen, and he turns around, intent on getting to his gear but Gawain doesn't let go.

"Gawain, we have to - " Gawain's lips catch his, sealing them, stopping the words. This wouldn't be a normal battle, not for them. Everything's still so unresolved. Gawain had never, ever ridden into battle no knowing what Galahad's thinking - they'd never ridden into a battle so confused.

Or so conflicted.

"I know," he whispers. He rests his forehead against Galahad's, closing his eyes, simply feeling Galahad's presence. "Don't die, Galahad. Please. Don't die."

Gawain steals one lass kiss and moves away, reluctantly letting go of him, knowing that Galahad will follow.

_"Please don't leave me."_


	9. VIII: Collapse

**Title:** Catharsis  
**Author:** **dealiberty**  
**Pairing:** Gawain/Galahad, Gawain/Tristan  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Dedication:** For **eudaimon**, for being you.  
**A/N:** This fic is _complete_. A chapter will be posted twice a week, on Fridays and Tuesdays. Thanks to both **eudaimon** and **trinityc** for the endless support you've given me. I guess I have to warn for angst fest ahead (yes...even more than before)...but we're getting there. Thanks to all those who have been reading and commenting; your words have meant the world and more.

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heartbeat, trying to rein in his emotions, steady his thoughts. He's tired enough, after that month long mission Arthur sent him on, after the beating he had taken from Gawain, he didn't need confusion to cloud his mind even further.

He knows he's lacking his usual poise, his usual awareness and concentration. He needs to get into his battle frame of mind. Find that calm and clutch on to it. He needs to focus. Or he will die.

He tries to take the time they have, the time they are gathering and preparing, to work through his feelings, sending each that he encounters to the back of his mind, to be examined later - if he survived the battle.

Arousal. No doubt. He's wanted that, wanted Gawain, for a long time. And finally having Gawain - not now - he mustn't think about it now.

Confusion. That's easy. He'd wanted Gawain to think of him. When he'd left Gawain standing there that day - has it only been five weeks? - he'd known that Gawain would think of him. But he hadn't known that Gawain would want him - would kiss him - not after he'd hurt Galahad. But Gawain had done, and he was left confused and slightly thrown.

Guilt. Yes, he wants Gawain. He's always wanted Gawain, because he's always cared. But he can see that it's hurting Gawain; it's tearing him apart. And it's hurting Galahad. And he cares about that too. Galahad loves Gawain - a deaf, blind and stupid man could see that - and Tristan had known that, ever since the first time he'd slid the knife across Galahad's back in the name of testing. He had been slightly drunk, they both had, and it had seemed like a good idea at the time. And then, after that, things got very complicated - there wasn't time to think through how it all happened, through the complexities of what ahd happened, but he _cares_ and he wants them to be happy. And so he feels guilty. For hurting them.

Uneasiness. Something isn't quite right about this attack. The Woads, they haven't come from the North. Because he had been there. He had just come back. And there were definitely no Woads. But it's not that, because this kind of attack has happened before, giving Merlin his rumoured sorcery.

Uneasiness. Because he has a feeling that something is going to go wrong. He just doesn't know what.

He checks the last buckle and turns around to pick up his sword - to find Gawain holding it out to him.

"Tristan…" One look into Gawain's eyes and Tristan sees the conflict in them; they have no reached a resolution. Gawain should not be here. Not with him.

"Go back to him, Gawain. He needs you." He reaches out, takes his sword and straps it on tight.

Gawain takes one step closer. "You promised me a later."

"Yes," he replies, glancing up, eyes soft. "Later. Not now. Later."

"Tristan, don't die." Gawain's voice is tight with worry and stress, and there's a light plea that is obvious to him.

"I'll try," he murmurs, smiling a little, looking down, hiding his eyes.

Gawain reaches up and touches his hair, letting his fingers trail down to caress Tristan's cheek lightly. "We'll sort this out." There's an even more desperate plea, begging Tristan for understanding. Gawain needs Galahad, but he wants him there too. And Tristan understands.

"Yes, later."

Gawain's thumb strokes Tristan's cheek once more before his shadow disappears, heading back towards Galahad.

Tristan closes his eyes, and lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding. They're riding into battle with everything still so unresolved. His confusion fights to surface but he wrestles it back down.

_Not now._

If there's nothing else that he knows, Tristan clings onto one thought: Gawain needs Galahad, and Tristan…Tristan thinks he might need them both.

His closes his eyes, letting Gawain's words sink in, taking comfort in Gawain's gestures, trying to convince himself, his breaking heart, that Gawain still loves him. Gawain still wants him around.

_"Don't die, Galahad. Please. Don't die."_

He is afraid. He's so confused, so hurt, so unfocused. All he can think of is Gawain and Tristan. Not the battle. He's upset, worked up - he's anything but ready for a battle.

He is afraid. Of being alone. Of fighting. Of death.

He tries to grasp at the frayed edges of his self-control, tying them together in a knot that he knows will come undone sooner rather than later.

He will have time to muse on it all - on Gawain and Tristan, on living and on dying - later. After the battle. The most important thing is to live. To survive through it.

His opens his eyes, taking calming breaths, locking away everything that will hinder his survival.

And almost comes undone.

Gawain's talking to Tristan. Gawain's whispering soft words that Galahad cannot make out. Gawain is touching Tristan with soft touches, light caresses and mellow eyes.

Tristan. Not him.

Galahad looks away, haphazardly trying to pull together the ragged edges of his world.

The echoes of footsteps stop next to him - echoes of his world snapping a little awkwardly back into place. If only for a while.

"Galahad." It's whispered and he turns towards it, acknowledging Gawain's presence. Gawain's standing there, strained, perplexed and so unsure.

"Yes." It's the answer to so many things unvoiced but heard anyway: a promise of trying to survive, of wanting to sort it all out afterwards, a confirmation of trust - and of love.

"Good." Gawain brings his hand up to cup Galahad's cheek, in a similar manner that he was doing with Tristan moments earlier, caressing it. "Because I don't want to lose you." And softly, Gawain kisses his lips, then his forehead. "I don't want to lose you," he repeats, eyes locked with Galahad's own.

_"I never want to lose you."_

They stay like that - eyes locked, Gawain's hand on his cheek, unmoving, trying say all the things yet unsaid with their gaze alone - until Arthur's call forces them apart - to take up arms.

The first time Galahad notices that something is wrong is when he sees Tristan's arrow missing a mark, hitting an arm rather than the throat, Tristan's preferred target. He knows that something is wrong because Tristan never misses. Tristan kills, Tristan doesn't injure.

And then he notices the slightly different stance - not centred, feet too wide apart - the slightly different grip - tighter than normal, at a different angle - and the different pace - slower, less steady.

And Galahad knows that something is very wrong.

_Five weeks._

The words flash through his mind. Five weeks. Tristan has not rested in five weeks. Tristan has not stopped, not slept properly, not eaten properly. And, if his own emotions are anything to go by, Tristan is confused. And Tristan's style - his strength - is his focus, his awareness, his _control_. And Tristan is not in control.

Almost unconsciously, he moves, fighting his way, towards Tristan, moves closer to the scout. Just in case. Just in case things go wrong.

He slashes at a Woad, running at him waving an axe, to his right, ducks a blow from the left before slicing the man's throat. Then he turns to pinpoint Tristan.

_Still standing._

A blow from the back forces him to duck again, turning just in time to parry a blow aimed at his head. One turn and he severs the Woad's head and already meeting another one head on, stabbing straight through his heart.

His brain has switched to his battle sense, mind disconnecting. He won't survive the battle otherwise; he thinks too much, regrets killing too much, hates this too much. But he does what he needs to survive.

He's working from instinct and that alone as he swims through what seems to be an endless ocean of blood, from his own blade, from others'.

Another turn, cut and parry, and his eyes are searching for Tristan again.

_Still standing._

Another foolish warrior, dead before his time, Galahad's knife to the side of his neck; he manages to pull it out just in time to push it into another gut; another dead, another gone. One more of death's attempts at his life defied.

Parry, slash, blood - his own this time, his right leg. Just a scratch. Spin, hack, thrust. Turn, eyes finding Tristan.

_Still standing._

Turn, slash, parry, pierce.

Freeze.

An archer. His arrow trained on Tristan.

In slow motion, Galahad sees the archer let the arrow fly. And then Tristan turns, unaware of the danger, and Galahad is sure that the arrow has been perfectly aimed - straight at Tristan's heart.

He has no doubts: if the arrow hits, Tristan will die.

Without him knowing, his feet move.

_"Do you love him? How much? How much do you love him?...I care because I love him too. Prove to me, Galahad. Prove to me that you love him."_

One more step sideways - towards Tristan.

_"You absolute fool! What are you doing still **here**? Why has no one gone after him? Why are you sitting here feeling sorry for yourself? Self-pity will not save Gawain's life. Have you so little faith in him? Do you think he will die so easily?"_

One more step sideways - in front of Tristan.

_"Watch him for a while. I'll come back later to change the bandages…Gawain's not going to be happy when he wakes up and you look like you're half dead; Gawain, certainly, won't be pleased."_

One more step sideways - into the path of the arrow meant for Tristan's life.


	10. IX: Fracture

**Title:** Catharsis  
**Author:** **dealiberty**  
**Pairing:** Gawain/Galahad/Tristan  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Dedication:** For **eudaimon**, for being you.  
**A/N:** This fic is _complete_. A chapter will be posted twice a week, on Fridays and Tuesdays. Thanks to both **eudaimon** and **trinityc** for the endless support you've given me.

He can only watch in complete horror, heart clenching, as he turns to see the Woad archer shooting at Tristan, the arrow going straight for Tristan's heart.

A friend. A brother. Possibly something more.

And he's about to lose them all.

His heart beats faster, pumping blood, run cold, through his veins. There's nothing he can do. Nothing. Nothing to save Tristan's life. He can only will Tristan to notice. But Tristan doesn't.

And Gawain's about to lose him before he really had him at all.

He's almost sure that his heart is going to beat itself right out of his chest, the pain of losing another one of their numbers - of losing _Tristan_ - already anticipated.

And then his heart almost stops completely.

_Galahad._

Time slows, as if wanting Gawain to suffer in his helplessness for longer, as he's forced to watch Galahad step between the arrow and Tristan.

The arrow hits.

And Galahad falls.

Time speeds up again, going impossibly fast as Gawain sees Woads rushing towards the fallen like vultures swarming.

He charges towards them, afraid, angered and sickened, mind whirling with possibilities, scenarios, accusations - anything and everything - that he doesn't want to think about. His body works on instinct, his mind too far into its confusing storm to really know what's going on - to know anything except one thing - one person.

_Galahad._

As his axe spins, severing limbs, slitting throats and crushing skulls, he tries to remind himself, to reassure himself.

Galahad's shorter than Tristan - that wasn't his heart. Galahad's a fighter. Galahad's strong. Galahad isn't lost to him. Galahad's not dead - not yet.

Gawain stabs the last of the swarming Woads and drops to Galahad's side, cradling his body close.

And Tristan's sword is there, flashing around them, all traces of the earlier exhaustion gone, protecting the pair on the ground.

"Galahad," he almost sobs, blood-stained fingers unbelievably gentle as they lightly trace Galahad's face. "Galahad, please."

And those green eyes flutter open, glazed over with pain and fear and a myriad of other emotions.

"Gawain?" His voice is impossibly young, trembling a little. So afraid.

"Yes. Me." The tears were threatening to spill at the hopelessness that was threatening to eat away his heart. "I'm here. Galahad, please…Don't…I don't want to lose you."

"I'm scared Gawain," the young knight in his arms confides. "I don't want to die. I'm scared."

Gawain shushes him. "Don't be Galahad. You aren't going to die. I promise you won't die." He's just as afraid, but he knows he needs to stay strong - for Galahad. He's painfully reminded now that Galahad is really only a child. Still so young. Eighteen. Only eighteen summers.

Too young.

"You always say that."

"And I'm always right." He pulls Galahad a little closer to him. "Come on, Galahad. Don't lose hope. Don't let go. Stay with me. I don't want to lose you…I never want to lose you. Please."

"I'm scared," he whispers again. "I'm so scared. Don't leave me, Gawain. Please don't leave me."

Breath hitching, Gawain drops a kiss to Galahad's brow and repeats the word he whispered a month ago, when their positions were reversed, meaning it as much now as he did then. "Never."

He's tired. It's been over a month and he has had one night's rest, that day when they'd brought Gawain home - and even then, he had not slept well, worried about Gawain - worried about Galahad. And now, he's so very tired.

And he's confused.

He knows he's not fighting as he usually does. He knows he's not in control. But there's nothing he can do about it, only manage as best as he can.

He turns, concentration slipping once - and he doesn't notice the archer until Galahad's there - until Galahad's falling. Because of an arrow meant for him.

And then Gawain's by Galahad's side, dropping to clutch the younger knight to him, ignoring the fighting completely.

Adrenaline moves his weary body to their side, fear of losing them fusing the edges of his control, desperation carries his sword as he kills without thinking, taking no pleasure in the task, only knowing that he needs to. For them.

The archer is dead, Tristan's dagger in his throat, and, around them, there is a circle of bodies: those who have been foolish enough to come within Tristan's range. He's like an animal, angered, frightened, protecting what is his, even if they didn't know it. He's watched them, cared for them - and he loves them both, needs them both.

And Tristan wants to kill anyone who tries to hurt them. Tristan _will_ kill anyone who tries to hurt them.

The battle dies out with the final breaths of the Woads scattered around the field, and Tristan drops to the pair's side, exhausted.

He hears Galahad's confession, hears his plea to Gawain and Gawain's affirmation, and he feels like his heart's breaking.

Those green eyes then slip from Gawain, focusing on his face.

"Tristan…"

"Galahad, what were you _thinking_?" Anger, fear, worry - all lacing his voice.

Galahad tries to shrug, but whimpers as pain racks through him, instead he settles for a spoken answer, wanting to make things clear somehow.

"I didn't want Gawain to hurt."

Gawain's eyes go wide, tears falling faster than before and he's more confused than ever.

"You didn't want Gawain to hurt so you got injured? Galahad, what _were_ you thinking? Are you out of your mind? Galahad…"

"And I didn't want you to die." The voice is too young, too childish to belong to such a brilliant knight, and the words are spoken almost too softly to be heard over the din of the after battle confusion, but Tristan hears it and it's like a slap to the face.

"Why? All I do is hurt you…all I've ever done is…Why?" Tears have come to his eyes, and Galahad's growing weaker and paler by the minute.

"Otherwise, there would be no one to annoy. No one to compete with - even if I can't ever win. No one to push me. No you." Galahad closes his eyes and rests against Gawain's chest, breathing hard.

"Galahad…" Tristan doesn't know what to say. His whole world is being turned upside down, he feels like he's breaking inside, and he can't understand what's happening. All he knows is that he doesn't want to lose Galahad. He doesn't want Galahad to die. "Galahad…"

Those fever bright eyes snap open, catching his once more. "Tristan…I - "

"Don't. No more deathbed confessions, Galahad. You aren't going to die."

"We're all going to die some day."

"Not today," Tristan says resolutely, pulling out his knife. "I need to get this arrow out."

"Tristan, look after Gawain. Look after him like you've always done. Look after him instead of me...be more than I can be. Please. Take care of him." He's trying to get Tristan to promise him. He's so sure that he's a lesser man than Tristan. He's so sure he's going to die.

"Stop being stupid, Galahad. Stop it. You need to be here to look after him yourself. I can't do that for you. No one can. No one _can_ be more than you." He looks up at Gawain, who has tears streaming unchecked down his cheeks.

In the corner of his vision, he can see that Arthur's approached, supporting Lancelot, who's limping. They stop short, seeming to give the trio their time and space. That's the way it always is when a knight's dying. Their best friends, most trusted companions at their side.

Tristan doesn't think he should be there; he's not any of that to Galahad. But then again, Tristan doesn't think Galahad will die.

They're not ready to lose their youngest. Not yet.

"I did this for the first arrow in your life, Galahad, and all the ones in between."

"And you're here, doing this for my last…"

"Maybe I will be, but the last is not this one. That's not today unless you plan on never getting hit with another arrow in your life. Not today. Not yet."

Galahad's eyes slip close again as Tristan works the arrow out, head still resting against Gawain. Gawain's whispering soothing nonsense through his own tears, hands petting Galahad's hair, holding Galahad close to him.

No. Not yet. Galahad couldn't die yet. They're not ready to lose him. And the earth isn't ready to take him back.

He pulls the arrow out, then Arthur and Lancelot are there with the rest, helping Gawain carry their injured brother.

Tristan takes one look at Gawain, standing lost and forlorn, and, for the first time in his life, he's tempted to pray to any god that will listen.

Gawain's breaking and Tristan has no idea how to put him together again.


	11. X: Impediment

**Title:** Catharsis  
**Author:** **dealiberty**  
**Pairing:** Gawain/Galahad/Tristan  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Dedication:** For **eudaimon**, for being you.  
**A/N:** This fic is _complete_. A chapter will be posted twice a week, on Fridays and Tuesdays. Thanks to both **eudaimon** and **trinityc** for the endless support you've given me.

_Infection._

He dips the cloth into water again, wiping it once more over Galahad's fevered brow.

_"It's infected, Gawain; he's burning up."_

"I'm sorry, Gawain. There's nothing we can do."

"He's strong. He'll be okay."

"He'll come back to you."

Encouragement. Reassurance. Everything they could offer him, they have. They do. Everyday.

But he hears the words they don't speak. He sees it in their stance, their eyes; he hears it in their voice.

_"He's fading."_

"He might not make it."

"We're going to lose him."

He runs a hand through Galahad's hair, smoothing it away from his forehead, replacing it with a kiss.

"Come on, Galahad," he whispers, desperation lacing his every word. "Come back to me."

It's been like this for days. Galahad burns. Nightmares constantly causing his body to convulse and shudder, sometimes making him scream and shout and beg and cry and sob. It tears Gawain up. Breaks his heart over and over again. And all he can do is hold him, whisper to him, offer any comfort he can - and still, Galahad doesn't know he's there.

Moments like this are becoming rarer. Moments where Galahad's still, only whimpering slightly. His breathing is more laboured now than it was a few days before, and his whole body burns.

Gawain feels like his soul is burning as well.

_"If you don't leave me, I won't die."_

"Do you remember, Galahad?" Gawain starts; not knowing what else to do, knowing that Galahad can't hear, but desperate - so desperate - to do something that's not just _sit_ there. "Do you remember the first time you got a fever? You were so young. All fluffy hair and huge green eyes, staring up at me. Burning up. Just like this." His fingers, almost of their own accord, lightly trace Galahad's cheek. "You promised me you wouldn't die. You promised you wouldn't die if I didn't leave. I haven't left, Galahad - " He breaks off, choking back a sob. "I haven't left. You aren't allowed to die. Because I'm still here. I'm here, love. Right here."

His fingers are still caressing Galahad's cheek; like a child. Like the first time. Like every other time in between. And Galahad, instinctively it seems, leans into the touch. Gawain chokes back another sob.

"You were so young when you came. So innocent. So full of life. The youngest of us all. Bors was convinced you'd never make it. I was convinced you would. Lancelot was sure you'd never ride well. I was sure you would, and you're the probably the most stunning rider of us all now. Tristan was positive that you'd never shoot straight. It took a while, but I was positive that you would … Galahad. They think you aren't going to make it. You have to. Please. You have to. Because I can't … Galahad … I can't live without you. I don't want to."

Gawain soaks the cloth once more, trying to collect himself. He doesn't want to fall apart. Because falling apart would mean giving up hope. And there's always hope.

"Remember the first time I kissed you? And you were so afraid then, afraid of what we had. We both were. So scared of asking for what we want for fear of losing what we had. So afraid to take one another because we were afraid of letting go. But in the end, we took the risk. It was worth it. Always worth it. Worth everything and more." He smiles fondly, lovingly, anxiously, letting his fingers run through the curly strands again. "And our first time. You were so shy. Afraid of your own body. Afraid that I'd push you away, disgusted. So unsure. So insecure. But you were beautiful. Blind to your own beauty. Gods. You were perfect. You _are_ perfect. That never changed. That never will. Not to me. Galahad…"

Gawain looks around, then looks up. Tempted. This once. Just this once. He's willing to try anything. Anything to have Galahad back. But, not to anyone in particular. To anyone - anything - that will listen.

"Please. He's too perfect, too pure. So young, so full of life. Don't take him. Not yet. Please. Please. I can't lose him. Not now. Not yet. I can't do this…can't survive if he's not here. Please. Don't be so cruel. Please."

Tears are flowing freely, now, but he doesn't care. He's not ashamed. Not ashamed to cry for Galahad. For his heart.

The door creaks open but he doesn't look up, eyes still fixed on Galahad's features.

Footsteps. Then a hand on his shoulder.

"Gawain, rest."

Dagonet.

He looks up, ready to protest, only to find that the hand isn't Dagonet's.

Tristan.

"Come, Gawain. Dagonet will watch him."

Gawain wants to resist, wants to stay by Galahad's side, but Tristan is adamant. And Gawain doesn't want to fight anymore. He brushes a kiss over Galahad's lips and stands, following Tristan out.

His room is the next door along. Next to Galahad's. The two had been fast friends and, on entering the fort, had shared a room. Then, as knights died and rooms grew empty, Gawain had only moved when the one next to Galahad's had been vacated. That's where Tristan leads him, knowing, as he usually does, that Gawain will not let him go too far. Within hearing distance. In case Galahad needs him.

There's fresh clothes laid out on the bed and a basin of water standing in the corner, food on the table. Tristan gives him a little push towards it all, before turning around, about to leave.

"Don't."

Tristan freezes at the door. "Don't what?"

"Don't go." Gawain takes a deep breath and turns around to meet Tristan's gaze. "Don't leave me alone."

"Alright." And he settles himself on a chair in the corner of the room. "Alright."

Gawain takes off his shirt slowly, washing away some of the sweat, his and Galahad's, that lingers on his skin.

Each touch reminds him of Galahad. Galahad's fevered brow, neck, arms, legs, torso - everything. And Galahad's hands on him. Washing away the blood and sweat and tears. Always there. Always beside him. But now…

Gawain falls to his knees, the basin clattering down with him, spilling water everywhere.

Tristan's by his side in a minute, arms going instinctively around him, holding him as sobs rack his body, pulling him closer, offering whatever comfort he can.

He's afraid. He doesn't want to think about it. Doesn't want to think about losing Galahad. Of never being able to hold him, kiss him, love him. Of not hearing his voice, seeing his smile, guiding his blade.

He doesn't want to think about the future.

Something. Anything to get his mind off it. Just for a while.

He turns his head slightly to the side, kissing Tristan's neck.

And Tristan freezes.

When Gawain falls, Tristan's there. He can't even remember how he got there, he can't remember the decision to move, but he's there. Holding Gawain, comforting him as best as he can, weathering out the storm.

He's glad Gawain asked him to stay. He's relieved that he did.

Catch Gawain when he falls. Hold him together - until Galahad puts the pieces back together again.

And then Gawain kisses him.

And he can feel himself ripping apart.

He wants Gawain. But he knows what Gawain's trying to do. He's aroused. Watching Gawain bathe himself…Tristan's only human. He knows what he wants. He knows what Gawain wants.

Resolutely he pulls Gawain away from his neck.

A hand creeps down to his crotch and it takes all of his willpower to not let himself go, drown in the passion, relieve his desire. To not take advantage.

"Gawain," he hisses. "Gawain. Stop."

And then Gawain's looking up at him, eyes bright, desperate, petrified, pleading. "Please, Tristan. Please."

He leans in, kissing Gawain's lips softly, chastely. "You know I would not hesitate. I would not deny you anything if I thought you needed it. I would let you. If I thought you needed _this_. But this isn't what you need, Gawain. This isn't what you need."

"Help me. Tristan, please. Help me."

He stands, pulling Gawain up with him, and moves them both onto the bed. He settles Gawain back against him, curling protectively around him.

"Tell me about him, Gawain. Tell me about Galahad." Gawain stiffens, making to move away, but he doesn't let go. "Trust me," he whispers. "Trust me."

"But…I want…I don't want…I…" With a sigh, Gawain gives up trying to argue, twisting around to face Tristan. "You already know him. You know him well."

There's a slight bitterness to the last sentence. Things still aren't resolved - not about that. Gawain still doesn't understand.

"Not like you do. No one knows him like you do."

Gawain takes a deep breath, letting it out in a rush. He shifts his position slightly, tucking himself neatly under Tristan's chin.

I trust you, the position says. I trust you.

"Galahad's…gods. I don't know where to start."

"From the beginning. There's nowhere to start other than the beginning."

"Alright." Gawain's voice is still shaky. Still trembling. But he trusts, and he obeys. "Galahad…he was so small. So angry. So upset. He…you know, he was the last we picked up. Found it the hardest to settle. But…" Gawain closes his eyes, lost in the memory. "There was something about him. His spirit…it was just so bright. I was drawn to him - like a moth to a flame. Hopeless, Kay once called me. Completely hopeless. I didn't know it then - didn't know I loved him. But I think Kay saw. I think…a lot of us saw. When it really came down to it, I don't think I ever thought about it. I just knew. The realisation came and it didn't surprise me. Natural. Like breathing. Loving Galahad was - is - like breathing. Never could stop it anymore than I can stop my heart beating."

The trembling in Gawain's voice increases slightly as he draws in a shaky breath and Tristan pulls him closer, dropping a kiss into his hair. Encouraging.

"I can't lose him, Tristan. I can't…I couldn't…I just…I _can't_."

"I know. And he knows." His turn to talk. He doesn't like talking - hates it, really. But he knows that Gawain needs to know. Needs to understand. "Gawain, I think you figured out what I did…to Galahad."

He's holding Gawain so he feels the tension work its way up Gawain's spine. "Wait. Listen." He holds on, not letting Gawain pull away. "Listen. And understand. I know that it was…ridiculous. But I was drunk. He was drunk. That first time. I watch, Gawain. I watch and I learn. I've always watched you. And when you and him became something, I knew. And I knew you loved him. But him, him I wasn't so sure of. You were always there, always protecting him, caring for him. And I didn't know if he was with you because he loved you, or because he…because of the wrong reasons."

Gawain opens his mouth to protest, and he lifts a finger to his lips, quieting him. "Listen. It's hard to explain. But listen and I'll try." Gawain nods and he goes on. "That first time…that was…testing Galahad. I riled him up. Teased him, taunted him to a point where he thought he has something to prove. Then…I challenged him - challenged him to prove his love." Tristan sighs, burying his head in Gawain's hair, drowning himself in the scent. "That was the first time. And then things got…complicated."

Gawain's still, taking all the information in. Tristan's a little afraid. Scared that Gawain will be disgusted. What he's done to Galahad, he's not proud. He's not glad. He's not pleased. But it's happened. And Gawain needs to know. Gawain has a right to know.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. "After that…I would somehow say something, and he would think he had something to prove. I never meant to, but I would. And he would prove it. Again and again. No matter that it hurt him. He wanted to make me understand. Again and again. I wanted…I didn't want…I…" He trails off, collecting his thoughts, wanting to tell the truth. But he wasn't good with words. The only words he had been good at…were words to hurt Galahad. To get a reaction.

"Go on, Tristan. I want to know," Gawain breathes. "I want to understand."

"I got tired of being alone. I…At first, Galahad…it was like…it was like he was part of you. Being with him…being with him…was like…if only for a few minutes, I was with you. At first. Then…he and you…blurred. And…I had him. A piece of you. And himself. And…I cared. Mostly, I left. Left you alone. Because I wanted you happy. Both of you. Because you love each other that much. Because I cared that much. But then…when the loneliness became too much…" He shook his head. "I'm not proud, Gawain. I'm so ashamed. I just…"

And Gawain kisses him, stopping him from thinking further, from apologising further.

"I understand," he whispers once they've parted. "I understand. I think…I think…I don't mind that you've been with him…What…What angered me most…was that you'd marked him. Marked what was mine."

"My marks may scar on his back, Gawain, but your marks. Your marks are not there - not physical, yet are more visible than any scar. Whose mark of possession, then, is more evident? Who does Galahad belong to?"

"No one. Galahad belongs to no one but himself."

"And he gave himself to you."

"I can share," Gawain whispers. "I can learn to share."

Tristan doesn't know what to say. It's the first they've spoken of this, the first offer Gawain has made to him. "Galahad…"

"Can learn too. If he wakes…" Gawain's thoughts have turned that way again, and Tristan kisses him, distracting him, pulling him back.

"_When_ he wakes. He loves you, Gawain. More than anything. He'll come back to you."

_He has to._


	12. XI: Solace

**Title:** Catharsis   
**Author:** **dealiberty**  
**Pairing:** Gawain/Galahad/Tristan  
**Rating:** R  
**Dedication:** For **eudaimon**, for being you.  
**A/N:** This fic is _complete_. A chapter will be posted twice a week, on Fridays and Tuesdays. Thanks to both **eudaimon** and **trinityc** for the endless support you've given me. Only one more chapter plus an Epilogue to go until the end of our wonderful journey...

_"And he gave himself to you."_

"I can share. I can learn to share."

"Galahad…"

"Can learn too. If he wakes…"

"When he wakes."

He cradles Gawain close, chin resting on the top of Gawain's head; Gawain's curled to him, moulding, fitting against him. Gawain's breathing softly, idly playing with locks of Tristan's hair, his shirt. Lost in thought. Both of them. Lost in memories.

"Tristan?" It's a sigh, and Tristan feels his name more than he hears it.

"Hmm?"

"I'm worried. I…I want…I can't…but I want…"

"What, Gawain? What do you want?"

"You."

Tristan's breath catches and his hand stills. "Gawain…Gawain, I…"

"I know. I just…please. It's not escape. It's not…not anything except you. I want…I want you. I want this control out of my hands. I want you taking it. No one but you. Not a distraction, Tristan. Never a distraction." Gawain pleads. Tristan wouldn't have minded if he was a distraction, not really, but that fact that Gawain was thinking for him, thinking about his feelings, makes him want to do anything and everything for him. "Please."

Instead of answering - he does not have the words - Tristan tips Gawain's chin and kisses his lips, shifting so Gawain's pinned under him. Not like last time. This time, it's gentle, coaxing, soft - but just as hungry.

Gawain arches to his touch, hands moving up to rid Tristan of his shirt. Tristan shifts, making it easier for him, and runs his tongue along Gawain's lips, seeking entrance. Granted. And he swallows Gawain's moan.

Gawain tastes like sandalwood and musk and earth on a wet morning - which was ridiculous since he hadn't actually tasted any of those things and even if he had, they shouldn't be this _good_ - Gawain tastes like something so distinctly _him_ that Tristan's at a loss as to how to describe it. It's dizzying, intoxicating and he can't seem to get enough.

He releases Gawain's lips and kisses a trail to Gawain's ear, then down his neck, nipping and biting lightly.

Gawain's moaning, wreathing, squirming, arching up to meet him, breathing hard, panting. Eyes dark with arousal, staring at him - staring right into his soul - threatening to pull him in. He'd gladly lose himself in them; lose himself in Gawain's eyes.

He touches Gawain, making Gawain gasp, letting out a long guttural moan.

"Oh Gods, Tristan…"

"Hush." Gawain's coming undone, breathing coming shorter, eyes slipping shut, head thrown back.

One stroke.

_Gawain. Young, bright-eyed, optimistic, head cocked sideways, looking at him curiously. Not complaining. Not crying. Just inquisitive. Shadows in his eyes, betraying his homesickness. But so bright. A light. A shining light for them all. Stable. Steadfast. Unwavering. That's Gawain._

Two strokes.

_Galahad. Youngest, smallest, angriest, eyes - impossibly green - wet with tears, body trembling, afraid, so scared, so proud. Never give up, never give in, never second best. Determined, unwavering, loyal, like a puppy…obedient (to his owner), alert, eager to please, petulant, quick to anger. Fire. Flame burning, from small embers to roaring fire. That's Galahad._

Three strokes.

_Gawain. Galahad. Together. Arms lightly resting on one another's, eyes bright, filled with love, adoration, ease around the other. Gawain leading Galahad in an exquisite almost dance of sword and shield, guiding him: his stance, his arms, his legs. Galahad, born to be lead by him, trusting, believing, following. In synch. Perfect. His world. He'd build his world around them. Risk his world for them._

He loses count, lost in the beauty that are his memories.

_Perfection. His world. His past, present and future._

One more.

_Together._

And Gawain arches, mouth open in a silent cry. His name. Galahad's. Something in between the two.

And Tristan follows; images evoked by the experience and the sight of Gawain, memory of Galahad and Gawain's gentle almost brush against him enough to send him tumbling- following Gawain, always following - over the edge.

Gawain collapses, sated, tired. Mind catching up with a body long ready for rest.

"Tristan…You…" His eyes are already drooping, and Tristan sweeps the hair back off his face tenderly.

"Hush, Gawain. Go to sleep."

"But, Tristan…"

"Sleep." He slips off the bed, heading for the cloth Gawain dropped earlier - still wet - and brings it back to first clean Gawain up, then himself. Finally, he settles curled up next to Gawain comfortably.

Comfortingly. Anything. Everything to help Gawain. To just get through one more night.

Hold together the pieces of the broken man until Galahad can come back and make him whole again.

He lies there, still for a few moments, long enough to be sure that Gawain's fallen asleep, before sitting up, settling Gawain back onto the bed and pulling covers over him. Then, he pads softly out of the room.

Galahad's room is still dark, the only light coming from the lamp on the bedside, next to the basin of water. Dagonet's there, sitting silently, occasionally wiping the sweat from the young knight's brow. Still fevered. Still drifting.

"No change?" He asks the silent knight.

"No change." Dagonet stands, letting the cloth slide back into the water. "Bors brought fresh water."

_Take care of him. Let us know of any change. Keep him with us. Don't give up hope._

He nods in reply, to things both said and unsaid, taking up vigil by Galahad's bed.

Time passes. Minutes, hours - he does not know. Galahad begins to whimper again, from time to time, he can hear Gawain's name. He's about to rise, to get Gawain because Gawain's the only person who knows how to calm Galahad better than others should delirium take him - until he hears his own name.

Stunned, he falls back into the chair.

Shaking, confused, unsure, Tristan raises a hand and lets it slide through Galahad's curls. When Galahad leans to the touch, Tristan breaks.

"Come on, pup, fight it. Come back. I don't know how to deal with this…" He sighs. He's not a man of words, but this is different. This wasn't how things were normally. "Life would be too boring, unbearably so, if you aren't here, kid, moving and shuffling and moaning and groaning. This stillness, this feverish sleep, doesn't suit you. It doesn't suit you at all." He dips the cloth into water, shifting so he's sitting on Galahad's bed. "I know you love him. I know. I've known since that first time but being with you…you're part of Gawain and he's part of you. You're both…you both mean something. Even after I knew… I never let you go. I let you be, you and him, apart from those moments…those moments I reminded you that you belonged to _him_. And those moments I knew you needed to do something for him or yourself. And those moments…when I grew tired of being alone. I never meant to hurt you, either of you. Not really. Never really. I just…I was just scared of being alone. You'll laugh at me, I know, when you're awake. You'd laugh. But then…I'm not sure I would mind if you'd just _come back_." He doesn't know why, but he feels as if there's this need to tell Galahad - to tell Galahad everything.

Even though he's not sure if the pup can here him at all.

Galahad's breathing grows a little calmer, settling back into a feverish sleep. Relief. He feels relieved. No hysteria. No delirium. Not this time. But then Galahad settles. And he is still. Not restless, not constantly shifting and shuffling. Not energetic. Just still.

"Fight it, you stubborn whelp. I'm here, pouring my heart to you, and still you sleep? Fight it. Don't give up. Open your eyes. Gawain's hurting. Gawain needs you, pup. He's falling apart and I don't know how much longer I can hold him together. Come back, Galahad. Come home and piece him together again. Come back…before _I_ fall apart."

He sighs, taking a pale hand in his, turning it over, studying it, caressing it lightly. Still too hot. Still dangerously high. Infection in the wound. In the wound left by an arrow meant for him. He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, calming himself. Thinking about losing Galahad. Too much. Too painful. "I love killing - you are right in that accusation - I love the smell, the taste of battle, the beauty that we've been taught to execute so fiercely - beauty in perfection of a kill; but you go against that, always fighting against that." His breath hitched a little, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "You are my grasp - you know that? - my handhold, my anchor, keeping me from turning into a monster. You and your childish, naïve, idealistic dreams keep me sane - keep me human. You made me realise, and you keep reminding me, what love is - you and Gawain - and what beauty truly is. Beauty in life, Galahad, not in death. So come back. Come back into life and walk not the path of death." He breaks off, unable to voice anymore, sobs threatening.

Someone shuffles towards him and he looks up to see Gawain, eyes soft, sympathetic, afraid.

"Tristan…"

"How long were you there?" He doesn't mind. He just wants to know. He has no secrets from Gawain, not in regards to Galahad - not anymore.

"Since you took his hand." And Gawain tugs at his hand lightly, pulling them both to the floor beside Galahad's bed, curling together and taking comfort in each other's pain, each other's fears, each other's memories - taking comfort in each other.

He's drowning in darkness. And he can't find Gawain. Floating somewhere between one place and another, sometimes so close to the surface he can hear their voices, sometimes so far away he can hear nothing but his own thoughts, his own memories.

_"I'm sorry, Gawain. There's nothing we can do."_

He hears Gawain's sobs. And he wants to go towards it, tell Gawain it's okay, stop Gawain from hurting. But he's too weak, the pain too much, the pull too strong.

_He can't quite believe what he's seeing. After Gawain had defended him - after everything - he's kissing Tristan._

His breathing quickens as it hits him - hard. His greatest fear of losing Gawain - to death, to hatred, to Tristan - has finally come true.

And he is alone.

His memories conflict with what he's hearing until he can't quite figure out which is remembered, which is heard. He's so confused, torn between wanting to go back to Gawain and his own feelings of solitude - he's not sure if he's still wanted.

The memories flow, and the voices keep filtering through. It feels like he's under water, and he can only hear and remember small snatches of conversation and feeling.

_"You promised me you wouldn't die. You promised you wouldn't die if I didn't leave. I haven't left, Galahad - I haven't left. You aren't allowed to die. Because I'm still here. I'm here, love. Right here."_

That's heard. He doesn't remember that. And it makes him realise that Gawain needs him. Gawain still wants him, still loves him; Gawain's still there. Still by his side.

_Gawain's talking to Tristan. Gawain's whispering soft words that Galahad cannot make out. Gawain is touching Tristan with soft touches, light caresses and mellow eyes._

Tristan. Not him.

He falters. He remembers that clearer than day. Was it his imagination? Does Gawain not need him after all? Gawain has Tristan. Gawain has Tristan and Tristan's always been better than him. He couldn't do anything that Tristan can't. And Tristan does it better. So, is he's not really needed. He's imagining - that pain in Gawain's voice, the pleading he can hear - wanting something to be true. So, Gawain doesn't really need him after all. He'd be alone if he went back. Still alone.

_"Please. He's too perfect, too pure. So young, so full of life. Don't take him. Not yet. Please. Please. I can't lose him. Not now. Not yet. I can't do this…can't survive if he's not here. Please. Don't be so cruel. Please."_

But that _was_ Gawain. It was Gawain _praying_. Praying for him. Because he needed him still. 

Galahad wants to curl up and scream. His memories conflict with what he hears and he doesn't know which to believe. He's not even sure he's hearing these things, he's not sure he remembers anything - he's just not sure.

_"You don't know the sorry state I found Galahad in. Just sitting there, doing nothing, Lancelot and Arthur panicking - if I was Arthur, I'd thank his God everyday that I came back when I did. Otherwise you'd still be there, Gawain, tied to a cross, dying. And Galahad would still be broken."_

But he's useless. Compared to Tristan, he's nothing. And Gawain knows that Tristan loves him. And Gawain wants Tristan. Not him. Tristan.

The contradiction of each memory, each thought, each thing he hears echoes in the darkness around him, bouncing backwards and forwards until all he can hear are his own thoughts and memories mixing, combing until it's a roar of confusion.

He hugs his knees to his chest, trying to block out the echoes. He doesn't want to know anymore, he doesn't want to hurt. He just wants to be. And he's not sure he wants to go back - because he's not sure he wants to be alone - but there's also this driving need for Gawain's arms around him.

_"You made me realise, and you remind me, what love is - you and Gawain - and what beauty truly is. Beauty in life, Galahad, not in death. So come back. Come back into life and walk not the path of death."_

Tristan. That's Tristan's voice. He's sure. How many times had he heard it taunting him, teasing him, challenging him? How many times had that voice been the cause to pain, to hurt, to some form of reaction or another? Always mocking. Never like this.

And he realises something; it hits him like some sacred knowledge from the makers of the Earth: although he thinks he hates Tristan, he doesn't; he hates Tristan looking down on him, doubting him.

Tristan's opinion mattered. Tristan mattered.

Tristan _matters_.

In the space of a second, his world comes into focus, twists itself sideways, upside down, flips over. And ends up crashing perfectly into place.

Tristan's always mattered.

Although Tristan had bullied, mocked and challenged everything he was, it always got a reaction, it always made him think, stop, consider.

And look after himself - to look after Gawain.

He's always wanted to prove to Tristan that he loves Gawain, he's always wanted to prove to Tristan that he's worth something. That he wasn't a worthless whelp of a boy, wanting nothing more than comfort. He'd wanted Tristan to understand that he was something - not the nothing he'd always been accused of.

Always trying to prove something, always seeking some form of acceptance.

Because Tristan matters.

Galahad realises he wants Tristan around. And he wants Gawain.

And he wants them now.

His eyes flutter open, heavy with exhaustion, still sticky with fever and sweat. And still tired. So very, very tired. But there's one - no, two - things he wants.

"Gawain? Tristan?"

"Gawain? Tristan?"

The voice is so weak, so small, so young, but it's as if the voice is heaven sent. Relief washes over the both of them as they scramble up to find Galahad looking at them, eyes clear. No delirium. No fevered nightmare. Just those forest green eyes, staring up at them.

"Oh Galahad," Gawain whispers, collapsing onto the bed, cradling Galahad carefully to him, holding him tightly, tenderly. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you so much." To the gods. To whatever gods had listened to his prayers and given Galahad back to him.

Back to them.

Gawain's kissing him softly, his hair, his face, his neck - anything Gawain can reach, not letting him go, as if afraid; scared to let go in case he loses him again.

Galahad's eyes sweep up, locking with Tristan's, there's a gratified light there, and the same relief Galahad had seen in Gawain's eyes.

And Galahad closes his eyes, lets his head loll to his favourite place: between Gawain's neck and shoulder, and reaches for Tristan's hand. It's shaking slightly, and cool to touch, but comforting and liberating in ways Galahad hasn't known before. He lets out a long breath, revelling in the safety and reassurance that's being offered, bathing in the love and relief radiating from the two knights around him.

"Welcome back, pup. Welcome home."

**A/N:** The contents in this chapter have been slightly modified to fit with the website rules. For full version, see my profile and follow the link to my writing LJ.


	13. XII: Completion

**Title:** Catharsis  
**Author:** **dealiberty**  
**Pairing:** Gawain/Galahad/Tristan  
**Rating:** R  
**Dedication:** For **eudaimon**, for being you.  
**A/N:** This fic is _complete_. A chapter will be posted twice a week, on Fridays and Tuesdays. Thanks to both **eudaimon** and **trinityc** for the endless support you've given me. Only the Epilogue, which will be possibly posted tomorrow, to go. Here's to the redemptive!ot3!smut since the Epilogue is rather bittersweet.

Gawain's curled protectively around Galahad, chin resting on his curls, hands rubbing his back gently, soothingly. Galahad's dozing lightly, fever broken, breathing evened out, back with them. And he hasn't let go of Tristan's hand. Tristan's curled up on Galahad's other side, hand tucked securely in Galahad's arms, held tightly to Galahad's chest, facing Gawain. Every time Gawain brushes Galahad's back, his hand brushes over Tristan's chest. Comforting them both. Calming them all.

Galahad shifts a little, brow crinkling in annoyance, then pulls himself closer to Gawain and tugs Tristan's arm closer. Gawain smiles fondly down at him, resettling Galahad between them, and Tristan allows himself an indulging smile. Gawain looks up, biting his lip, catching Tristan's gaze and grinning, and Tristan playfully rolls his eyes.

"So demanding," he mouths. And Gawain smothers his amusement.

"Yes," he agrees, silently. But his eyes say the words that his mouth never forms. _i But I don't mind pampering him. /i _

And that brilliant light that had first caught Tristan's attention is back in Gawain's eyes, and shining brighter than ever.

Galahad shifts again and, this time, Gawain pulls back slightly. At first, Tristan's confused, but then Galahad's eyes flutter open, and he understands. Gawain knows. Gawain always knows.

"How are you feeling?" Gawain's voice is soft, caring, concerned.

"Better than I've felt in a long time," the younger knight answers, smiling such a radiant smile that Tristan's breath involuntarily catches.

"Good." He and Gawain reply at the same time, relief ringing clear in both voices.

Galahad stiffens, at first not knowing who's behind him. When the realisation comes, he sighs and relaxes, going limp again in their arms, but doesn't turn to face Tristan. Instead, his cheeks and ears beginning to colour. Embarrassed, obviously, and not quite knowing how to deal with this new situation. But he doesn't let go of Tristan's hand.

"Did I…? I almost…?" Galahad struggles to form the words, not knowing how to put what he wants to say into words.

But they both know.

"Yes." It's softer than a whisper, and both Gawain and Tristan shift closer to Galahad, holding him even more tightly between them, glad for his presence, relief and worry evident in both their stances. "Yes."

"Oh," Galahad says, squeezing his eyes shut. "Oh…I'm…I…I'm sorry…"

"Galahad…" Gawain sighs, exasperated, holding back tears. "Don't."

"But I am. I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologising?" Tristan asks, bluntly, tone reminiscent to the one he used to use to taunt Galahad. "What are you apologising for? Saving my life?"

"No…I…No!" Indignant. This was more the Galahad they knew. "No!"

"Then don't apologise for nothing, you stupid puppy."

Galahad bristles at the pet name, hackles rising, but the way Tristan rests then his head gently against Galahad's back, breathing ragged, makes him stop and think. It's not spat out in a taunt. Not this time. It's a gibe that's masking relief, endearment, guilt.

"It doesn't matter," Gawain says, hand running from Galahad's hair to Tristan's. "It doesn't matter because you came back. You're both here. You're both alive." Gawain's voice shakes as he fights back tears. The caress falters slightly as Gawain's control slips for a moment. Too much worry, too much fear, too much relief to keep it together. "If either of you ever, _i ever /i _do that to me again, I'll kill you both."

And then he's tugging them both closer, pulling them more tightly together in a crushing embrace. And they both let him, go to him willingly, helping one another to put the shards of Gawain back together again.

Voices in the hallway coming closer, familiar voices, coming towards him. Galahad bounces impatiently on the bed, waiting for the door to open – to open and reveal the two people he's been waiting for, worrying about, pining for.

It's been weeks since his near death experience and he's recovered fast – but not fast enough.

The doctors still called it a miracle and wondered day after day how he had survived when they had all thought him a lost cause. Gawain and Tristan called it a gift. And never questioned the reasons why (stubbornness, Tristan had said but Gawain had smacked him lightly, laughing).

He had wanted to go with them, on this mission, insisting that he was feeling much better, that he was fit enough to, but Gawain and Tristan ganged up on him, and he was forced to stay at the garrison and wait for their return.

It had been three weeks.

And Galahad's like a bouncing ball of energy.

The door creaks open, painfully slowly, and Gawain and Tristan appear, dishevelled and dirty.

And Galahad nearly mows them down.

"What took you so long?" Then he's attached to Gawain's arm like a leach.

"Some of us had things to do, pup."

Galahad glares at Tristan, leaning up for an impatient kiss from Gawain. Even though they've come to some sort of unvoiced agreement, Tristan still gets under Galahad's skin, even if he feels something indefinable for the infuriating man.

"I didn't ask you," he snaps once his mouth is free to do so, and he opens it again to carry on his tirade, but Gawain seals it with his own lips.

"Don't," he whispers against Galahad's lips. "Don't argue."

Tristan scoffs but looks apologetic (as much as he can) when Gawain turns to look pleadingly at him.

"I got some water. Clean up." Galahad chirrups, a proud lilt to his voice, tugging Gawain towards the basin. Tristan sighs, turning to go to his own room in search of clean water; even though they where something to one another, there was always a small competition for Gawain – or Gawain's attention.

"Tristan?" Galahad's voice stops him, and he turns to find Galahad standing there, insecurity clear in his eyes – standing next to another basin. And a clean set of Tristan's clothes.

"Thanks, kid." He swirls back around, oddly touched by the gesture.

"Gawain would sulk if you weren't here," Galahad throws out, cheeks glowing, but Tristan can here the quiver of relief in the voice, and a hint of something else.

He's about to slip into a new shirt when a hand on his stops him and then Gawain's there, smiling mischievously.

Galahad's sitting on the bed, resolutely not looking their way, ears pink, swinging his legs like an impatient child. Gawain looks at him and raises an eyebrow in silent question – and a hint of a challenge. Tristan smirks and puts down his clothes. For later. They'd only get ruined if he put them on now.

And he slips harmlessly out of Galahad's line of vision as Gawain calls his name.

Galahad turns to focus on Gawain, cheeks reddening when his sight finally settles.

"Come here." And Galahad seems helpless but to follow.

Gawain kisses him, slowly, languidly, deeply, swallowing Galahad's moans as he pulls him closer, until the only thing separating them is Galahad's clothing. Gawain runs his tongue over Galahad's stroking, teasing, coaxing and leading in an intricate dance that can never be fully explained.

Galahad's hands are spread over Gawain's back, eyes shut, completely lost to the sensations.

And Gawain's hands slip between them, lifting the tunic off, followed by the shirt and to begin working on his trousers with practised ease. Galahad's head has lolled back and Gawain's biting lightly on his neck, soothing the pain away with his tongue, leaving a trail of bruises.

The trousers drop and Gawain backs him up. Into another pair of arms.

Galahad's eyes fly open, twisting in Gawain's grasp to come face to face with Tristan.

Tristan's eyes are almost black with arousal, and he's breathing hard. And naked. Tristan's hair hangs down over his face, framing dark and striking features, sharp eyes, high cheekbones, slightly parted lips. Neck and shoulders slightly tanned; torso, built, muscled, lean frame hiding unknown strength; legs, long and shapely; thighs, buttocks – all perfect. Still glistening with droplets of water, and beginning to form a sheen of sweat.

Perfect.

And suddenly, Galahad feels inadequate. And he forces himself to look away.

Gawain spins him around, slowly, back to face him and tips his face up, looking into his eyes. And Galahad turns away, hiding his face in Gawain's neck.

"Galahad." Whispered in his ear, hands caressing his back lightly. "Galahad, look at me."

Galahad refuses, and Gawain can feel a slight wetness on his shoulders. "Galahad," he sighs, looking pleadingly at Tristan who's looking at Galahad hungrily, seemingly devouring the younger knight with his eyes alone. Galahad had always been ashamed of his own body, so shy, so insecure about his own beauty. So unsure. But he was perfect. To Gawain, he's always been perfect.

Gawain kisses his hair, letting his hands drift down Galahad's side, making him shiver. "Beautiful," he breathes. "Perfect. Don't be afraid, Galahad. Don't be ashamed. You are faultless. To me, you are perfect."

Galahad burrows deeper, still scared, still not sure.

Because Tristan is just too beautiful. Tristan was perfection in his eyes.

Tristan's hand slips onto his hip, and his body follows, fitting against Galahad from behind.

"So beautiful," Tristan whispers softly. "So fucking beautiful. Who knew the pup had such a nice body? Who knew the whelp grew up this striking?" His hands slip further down, caressing Galahad's hips, down his thighs, leg slipping between Galahad's, parting them slightly. "So fucking perfect." Slowly, Tristan bends and licks a trail from the base of Galahad's spine to his neck, making him shudder, throwing his head back and letting out a soft moan.

Gawain catches Galahad's lips as soon as he can, swallowing the rest of the moan and coaxing another from the young knight.

Tristan's kissed his way back down again, tracing the scars he's left, bathing and soothing each individual mark as if in apology.

When Tristan nips Galahad's hip, the young knight's knees give, and Gawain catches him, already anticipating the move.

"Bed," he murmurs, more to Tristan than to Galahad, who's already boneless. "Now."

A flurry of touches until they can't be sure whose hands are whose, who's moan leaves their lips – they don't know and they don't care. The world narrows to them – just the three of them – and that's all – that's enough.

Galahad is the first to tumble, arching, head thrown back, eyes rolling, crying out. And it doesn't take long for Gawain and Tristan to follow.

Galahad's curled up again, fitting perfectly on Gawain's right side, head nestled in his favourite place on Gawain's right shoulder. Gawain's hand is absently caressing him, easing his return from his release. Gawain's other arm is locked around Tristan, securely holding him, mirroring Galahad on the other side.

Tristan's awake, eyes soft. He lifts his hand, running it softly through Galahad's curls and lets it rest of Galahad's cheek, breath catching when Galahad nuzzles him, leaning into the touch.

And Gawain smiles.

"He's rather cute when he's asleep, isn't he?" Tristan whispers, letting his lips curl up. "Pity it's not the case when he's awake." Fondly. Not mockingly, but lovingly.

"Shu'dup." Galahad slurs, eyes fluttering open, gaze still hazy and unfocused – and still nuzzling Tristan's hand like a kitten.

"Let's get one thing straight," Tristan whispers, eyes suspiciously bright. "This doesn't mean I like you, fluff-ball."

Galahad bristles, but there's a playful smile on his lips. "That's good because I don't like you either, bird-boy."

Gawain rolls his eyes, smile tugging at his lips.

"At least you're agreed on something."

Hesitantly, as if fearful of rejection, Galahad's hand sneaks across Gawain's body, reaching for Tristan – and Tristan doesn't pull away.

And the three worlds that have slowly been splintering shatter completely – and reform into something infinitely more beautiful: one world. For all three of them.

**A/N:** This chapter has been _hugely_ editted to fit with the rating requirements. If you'd like to see the original NC-17 version, either email me, or check out my writing livejournal (the link to which can be found in my profile).


	14. Epilogue: Memories

**Title:** Catharsis  
**Author:** **dealiberty**  
**Pairing:** Gawain/Galahad/Tristan  
**Rating:** R  
**Dedication:** For **eudaimon**, for being you.  
**A/N:** This fic is _complete_. A chapter will be posted twice a week, on Fridays and Tuesdays. Thanks to both **eudaimon** and **trinityc** for the endless support you've given me. Only the Epilogue, which will be possibly posted tomorrow, to go. Here's to the redemptive!ot3!smut since the Epilogue is rather bittersweet.

Tristan's gone. Dead. Buried. But not lost to them, never lost to them.

They still feel him - still feel him there. Like a phantom limb. Unseen, but still felt. Part of them.

All the time that they're together, Gawain traces Galahad's scars and they both see him, his eyes, his smirk and his cold exterior, built to protect them both.

"I never liked him," Galahad sobs. "I never learnt to like him."

_But I loved him._

"I know," Gawain whispers, pulling Galahad closer. "And he knows."

"Damn him. _Damn him_ for dying. And for still hanging around. Damn him," says Galahad, voice shaking. "It's just like that cheeky bastard to hang around even after he's dead. Just like him," he mumbles through tears.

And really, thinking about it, Gawain cannot help but wonder: do the ones that love us really ever leave us?

As Gawain kisses Galahad, hand trailing Tristan's art, he sees Tristan's face, ingrained in the back of his eyes, fixed in his mind.

Tristan is smiling at them, smirking at them both in that infuriating, beautiful way of his.

_I'm still here. I'll wait for you._

No, Gawain thinks, the ones that love us - that we love - never really leave us.

Completed: 28/12/2004  
Finally editted: 05/12/2004  
Posted: 07/12/2004

Total wordcount: 23,066


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